


スヂ

by gyuuniku



Series: Two of a Kind (aka self-indulgent pregame SaiOuma smut series) [4]
Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Attempted Murder, BDSM, Biting, Blood Kink, Blood and Violence, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Consensual Violence, Deepthroating, Dysfunctional Family, Handcuffs, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kidnapping, Love Confessions, M/M, Marking, Nose Hooks, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Pre-Game Momota Kaito, Pre-Game Oma Kokichi, Pre-Game Personalities (New Dangan Ronpa V3), Pre-Game Saihara Shuichi, Serial Killers, Sex Toys, Size Difference, Size Kink, Stalking, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, THERES SO MUCH GOING ON HERE HOW DO I EVEN TAG IT ALL, Threesome - M/M/M, angst angst angst, har har no gag reflex Ouma, imma keep it real with you chiefs..... Momota is a murderer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 08:09:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 30,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16082018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gyuuniku/pseuds/gyuuniku
Summary: Overwhelmed with an uncontrollable desire to die, thinking Ouma has abandoned him, Saihara meets up with a faceless stranger from the internet that offers to end his life. When things don't go as planned, all three are roped into a tango that ends with perverse consequences and inescapable truths.-“Oh.. and um…”“What?” Momota was getting irked. He wanted something else? One request was fine, but he wasn’t a charity, and it was never his intention to make Saihara comfortable in his death. The exact opposite, truthfully.“Kaito-kun…” His once uneven movements were taking on a more frenzied pace, his thighs rubbing up against each other quickly. Momota watched them with a confused glare, until he came to the realization.‘What. The. Fuck.’“Can we do it…?” Saihara’s breaths were coming out in heavy puffs, the handcuffs cutting rings into his wrists that made his body convulse. “There’s a lot I never got to do, and I bet it’s the same for you…So, you can do whatever you want to me, since I’m going to die anyway.”





	スヂ

**Author's Note:**

> Please check the tags before reading for warnings!

 

_**The work is part of a series that has chapters before it, to read them[click here!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1005960)** _

 

* * *

 

_-_

_筋_

_su-ji_

_muscle/tendon/sinew_

_-_

 

 

“Ouma-kun, are you in any clubs?”

“Huh?” Ouma lifted his head at the asinine question, the utter absurdity of it genuinely catching him off guard. Someone like him, in a club…?

Did it look like any club would touch him with a ten-foot pole? Not even that, what could he actually contribute to a group of collected people, all already bonded in their own way, with his presence? Clubs weren’t just an academic obligation in a student’s life, they were a social affair, a way of fraternizing with your classmates as well as teaching yourself valuable social skills for your later advancement. Did any of that sound like Ouma…?

It wasn’t as if Ouma wanted to be disliked, it was just the idea of ‘Clubs’ in general that made it virtually impossible. Sort of like oil and water, but probably not as serious. More like orange juice and toothpaste. Possible to mix, but entirely unpleasant.

That didn’t mean he didn’t fulfill his societal expectations, every day he cleaned whatever room needed sufficient fixing, or took over whatever watering the Gardening Club couldn’t handle, or anything else the teachers could scrounge up. A Jack-of-all-trades that no one really wanted around, as he was usually sent home with no work. Not even the Library Club needed his help organizing books.

That didn’t stop everyone from their judging whispers, that he pretended to need the time to study and that was how he got out of club-work. That he was really just going home to mess around, a human rubbish-bin that was avoiding his obligations to do as he pleased, like some sort of Otaku. Why did Ouma get to go home but they couldn’t?

But, it was Saihara asking this time, his hat pushed back fully to reveal his genuinely interested eyes. There was no venom, or gag, in the gold, he was being honest with his question, despite knowing the type of person Ouma was.

 _‘Of course he is…!’_ Ouma only smiled outwardly a bit, desperately holding on to the edge of his lips to keep them down while he responded with such degrading information. _‘Saihara-kun really is the nicest person in the world.’_

“No, I’m not in any…” Ouma reached down to pick up the discarded water bottle on the ground, the litter distracting him enough that he could put his head low, his face out of the other’s line of sight. He twisted the empty water bottle a few times in his hand, observing it for any obvious mold or mud, before removing the wrapper and cap. Separating the different garbage, he sorted them into the two bags in his hands, plastic bottles and recyclables.

“Oh, that doesn’t mean I go straight home, though! I usually help with extra clean up and things… When I can…” It wasn’t very convincing, and Ouma’s hands faltered over a discarded receipt he was mindlessly picking up. Ah, burnables went into Saihara’s bag.

“I see…” Saihara’s hand brushed by Ouma’s as he reached down for the paper, and he did his best to ignore the small, squeaking noise the other let out at the simple touch. “But, you have to have some sort of talent, or interests, or something… Right?”

He tacked the question-word onto the end as if he wasn’t even sure himself, dropping the rubbish into the bag on his arm as he looked over at the smaller boy.

“Well… I mean, I did try joining the Chess Club…” Ouma was reluctant to admit such a failed statement, but he was surprised by the sudden response the other gave.

“Chess Club? That’s so cool…!” Saihara seemed to lean over Ouma, taking a step forward as he entered the bubble the other had put up, but rarely felt invaded. His presence was always overwhelming, and Ouma was never properly prepared for it, jumping underneath his skin as Saihara’s shoe crunched over the dry grass and placed itself directly between Ouma’s.

“I’ve always wanted to learn how to play chess… Doesn’t it seem like something that a detective would do?” Ouma didn’t fully understand, but he nodded anyway, the plastic bottles in his bag crunching together as he brought his arms closer to himself in an unconscious bid for personal space. “And isn’t it like, if you master the theory of chess you can win anything? Win any game that you play?”

“Um… I don’t really know about that…” Ouma glanced to the side when Saihara’s intensely interested eyes became too much for him to bear, seeing the other students mulling around the fields surrounding the school, focused on picking up garbage, or shirking their responsibilities entirely and chasing each other with shrill shrieks. Swallowing, he looked back up, and saw that his weak disagreement had not shifted Saihara’s expression at all.

He did know what Saihara meant, though.

Game theory had always been simple to Ouma, it was one of his only traits he could consider a positive talent, ever since he was a child. Of course, you needed to memorize and perfect the rules, but in truth, the rules of any game were never means to win, or even the point. It was the unspoken rules, the air and specifics each game carried in its nature, a trait that was unique to each game that made the path to winning exclusive to that one. Sometimes you needed to read the smallest twitches and mannerisms of the person opposite of you to tell their mental state, sometimes you needed to act as if you were losing in order to gain the upper hand, sometimes you needed to enter with a façade in place before the game even began to have a sliver of a chance of winning. Each game was different, they had different ‘side rules’, as Ouma had always mentally called them, and understanding those was the golden key to never losing to whatever opponent you faced.

This wasn’t his own concept, it was just the fact of games. It made sense then that masters of a certain game would only specialize in that game, as it took countless years of practice and experience to fully grasp the true way to win. Master poker players stuck with poker, Chess prodigies rarely succeeded at a game of an opposite concept… Ouma played all of them.

He had his grandfather to thank. When the caring home’s payments kept running late, and eventually stopped being made, he had come to live in their house for the last few years of his life. It was shameful to admit, but Ouma was terrified of his grandfather at first. He had been a child, with elastic skin and the ability to bounce back from anything, especially the thought of death. His grandfather had brought a stinking air into the house, and he looked horrific, his body pockmarked and wrinkled in places that made him look like he was melting underneath his robe. It was something Ouma had never seen before.

He spent the first few weeks hiding behind the sliding door and watching him, silently. Every day his grandfather would move the decrepit looking pieces of his chessboard over the cracking surface, sitting by the porch that led only into a disgusting alley, never doing anything else.

Then the next day, he would switch the board to the opposite side, and move the corresponding pieces, playing against himself in circles.

As the days stretched on and Ouma still refused to approach his grandfather, he was made an offer he couldn’t ignore.

“He’s stinkin’ up the goddamn house,” every movement Ouma’s father made as he talked was deafening, his boots slamming and his hands pounding. Ouma took as many steps back as he could, but never managed to outrun him, his calloused hand wrapping around the entirety of his childish arm and squeezing it threateningly.

“If you don’t start giving him a bath like I asked you to I’ll throw you outside.”

Ouma knew nights outside, frigid and sometimes rainy as he sat on the doorstep and kept his knees pulled to his chest in a feeble attempt to retain warmth. There was nothing to eat and there was nothing to do, just watch the streetlight flicker on and off. On and off. On and off. Until it got bright and it wasn’t needed anymore. The bugs would crawl over his feet in an orderly line as they marched toward something he couldn’t understand, but he respected their perseverance. They had a purpose, something they climbed even the oddest, warmest obstacles for, and he knew he would have one to, one day.

Who knew his would turn into a dark-haired boy with a penchant for hurting him… _Not as if he minded_.

He learned better than to cry and beg, the few times he had pounded on the door to plead to be let back inside, apologies falling out of his blubbering mouth in a high-pitched wail, he had met with something even worse than the cold. Dragged inside by the roots of his hair, tossed into the shower, the freezing water making him seize until he vomited.

There wasn’t really a choice anymore.

The day after, Ouma immediately lead him to the bath, a confident farce in his step as he lifted his knees each time he marched down the hallway. He clung to the elderly man’s hand as tight as he could, but the dead skin felt spongy and nauseating beneath his grip, and the more he registered it, the more he scrunched his tiny nose up until his face was unrecognizable. Even his footsteps sounded deceased, soft and barely recognizable compared to his father’s, the ones that sent a shiver down his spine every time.

After he had slipped him into the water, Ouma began rubbing his back with a sponge, obvious sludge and dirt scraping off of his skin against the suds.

“I’m sorry,” his grandfather had said, quietly, but with sincerity, and Ouma stopped, the black bubbles covering his small hands, so youthful and pale. It was the first time someone that had been blood-related to him, by some sort of unnamable, unbreakable bond, apologized to him.

After that, he spent every day with his grandfather, his flexible young mind switching his perspective in one easy moment. He taught him the basis of chess, and the concepts behind the movements, until the young boy found himself able to even challenge the much more experienced man, eventually beating him in a single game that changed his life.

Afterward, his grandfather has just smiled. Smiled like he held some sort of emotion toward Ouma the other had never visualized before. ‘Proud’, they called it. He had been proud.

Once chess was mastered, they played checkers, and shogi, and poker, and go, until Ouma could lay down a card or piece without doubting himself for a second. His grandfather taught him the movements of being confident, and even if it was only in that bubble, or as a show to outwit the opponent, Ouma could wear that confidence as his own. Even if it was just a mask.

He died two years later, in the midst of teaching Ouma blackjack. To this day he still wasn’t quite sure what to do with eights and aces.

They couldn’t afford a funeral, but Ouma snuck a pawn piece into the unceremonious cremation fire, tossing it carefully next to his feet when his father had his eyes closed. His grandfather had said to never underestimate the pawn, and it was only its appearance, mundane and arbitrary, that shielded its real importance from the inexperienced player.

There was one thing his grandfather could never teach him though, and that was the game of human interaction. How Ouma was to win that, he was never quite sure.

But that story was pointless… That wasn’t something Saihara wanted to hear… right? It was so depressing, if Ouma even began to describe it he knew Saihara would begin to pity him. And he never wanted to bring Saihara down, especially with his own miserable life, never.

“So, did you make it in? To the Club, I mean. Was there a game to join?” Saihara seemed riveted, and Ouma could barely understand why… He supposed the other just really liked chess, then? It certainly couldn’t be because he was interested in Ouma… right?

All of the attention was starting to get to him, and he could feel himself beginning to panic, though only slightly. He never gave the right answer to questions, at least if they weren’t academic, and the bombardment of them from the one person whom he yearned to please was terrifying. What was the right answer? He could just lie, and end the conversation easier. Move the focus back onto Saihara, the things that _really_ mattered, and forgo any more lamenting over his failed everything. Besides, wasn’t talking about yourself only begging for attention? Ouma absolutely wanted Saihara’s attention, but not like this! He wanted to hear more about Saihara, more things he couldn’t find out on his own, he was fine with listening forever if he could just get closer to him. Know the deepest parts, get inside of him, be the closest one to his whole self.

Or, he could tell the truth…

“They…” Ouma took a deep breath and looked up at Saihara, directly into his eyes, submerging himself in what was there. Saihara would know, he would know if Ouma lied. “They let me join, but I kept beating the captain, and he got mad. So they kicked me out.”

Saihara was quiet for a moment, trying to digest what he was just told, before a bright smile crawled onto his face, “That’s amazing, Ouma-kun! You beat the captain? You must be the Ultimate Chess Player or something.”

“E-Eh? No, not really-!” Ouma was even more overwhelmed at the response of Saihara managing to switch the dismal story, one he was convinced he would be accused of fishing for pity with, into such a positive reaction. He thought he was going to start shaking, the compliments Saihara was giving wrapping around his insides and squeezing them in the most pleasantly painful way possible.

“Wh-What clubs are you in, Saihara-kun?” He practically shouted, changing the subject before it quite literally caused him to explode. If his blood pressure rose anymore, he thought his head my pop off of his neck.

“Oh, me?” Distantly the sound of a teacher announcing through a bullhorn cut the conversation short. The small amount of time they had been given to interact with each other, such a beautiful gift wrapped in the arduous task of everyone coming together to pick up their wastefully discarded trash around the school, was coming to an end. But Ouma was not deterred, he stood his ground even as the others began to dissipate, he needed to hear the answer. He had spoken so much about himself, all he could ask now was just this morsel of information about Saihara.

He already knew the answer, of course, but hearing it from his mouth was different.

“I go straight home.”

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m home!” Saihara called to no one, as he always did, the second his shoes left his feet, and it only took the soft sound of someone padding down the hallway to rip his relatively normal mood to unrecognizable, mauled shreds. For someone like Saihara, coming home to an empty house was bliss, and his parents’ work schedules often left him with a few hours to space out on his bed, rerun Danganronpa, stream, scream whatever songs he desired, anything to destress from the bubble the outside world put him in.

But he forgot another person lived in his house.

“Club cancelled agaaain?” His sister’s voice was laced with the typical venom of a young teenager, one no longer enthralled with the unbreakable strength of her big brother. Gone were the days of hand holding and the annoying tapping on his door every three seconds during the day, the young innocence that made her so desperate to understand her seemingly invincible older brother dissolving as that innocence left her eyes. Growing into a young adult had made her realize, her brother was a fucking loser. An Otaku with no hobbies, no friends, no anything worthy of her idolizing respect.

“What about you?” Why were they even playing this game? She knew Saihara belonged to no club, contributed nothing to the general good of the populace, and that he lied to his parents about it. He knew he tolerated her improperly targeted angst because she could ruin his façade of a peaceful home life with this information. So, they circled around the toilet bowl until they inevitably clogged it and erupted, before they swirled again, until they day Saihara snapped or he moved out, whichever came first.

It was becoming more and more apparent that snapping might be their unavoidable ending.

“We’re leaving for an out of town championship tomorrow, so we have the day off.” Her head popped around the corner and her dark hair swung until it stilled over her face, framing the delicate features with styled ease. At least one of them had the decency to care about their appearance.

Saihara chose not to respond, and instead opted to put his slippers on, stepping up and into the house as it flooded with an unsettling atmosphere he hated. Could she just get out of the way so he could go upstairs and finish Chapter 3 of Danganronpa 15 already? If he didn’t finish his masterpost analysis tonight he was sure he would lose some followers.

“Mom is coming with me you know. It’s against the team ranked second in the nation, so,” her words were punctuated by a smug smile, but the other kept his face relatively blank. Attempting to step around her, his movement was interrupted by her brilliantly pink slippers, the colorful mascot’s face distended and engorged as it sat over her toes.

“Dad is out of town too, so you’ll have the house to yourself. Are you gonna die?” Her hands were on her hips, and her lifted head spoke louder than the air to her words. She was the child of pride, and she wanted Saihara to recognize that. Her fourteen-year-old ego was bursting at this moment, finally, finally she had the one-up over her older brother. Where age and gender had separated them, she made up for it all in her talent and superior _everything_ , he could never best her again. This moment to her, still so childish despite her cynical act, was the most triumphant moment of her short life.

If she wanted to be better than her older brother, then fine, it wasn’t like he cared much about what happened to him anyway.

“I think I will,” he said flatly, and the reset of emotions in her face was only beginning when he pushed past her and trudged the stairs to his room.

He slammed the door with enough force that it rattled the cutely decorated nameplate hanging off of her room adjacent to his, and jiggled the entire frame. When he tossed his schoolbag onto his bed with enough force that it made the bedframe bash against the wall, he could practically hear her flinch downstairs, still so frightened of her big brother after all that boasting.

Practically ripping his uniform tie from his body, he sat down in his computer chair and powered on the monitor. In the moments before the glow of the startup screen began, he saw his haggard face in the black reflection, drained of all color and all visible human characteristics. He saw something he hated, before it disappeared into the vibrant blue and swirling logo that replaced the horror.

How did he feel?

He knew his sister was better than him, and that didn’t really upset him in any way. It was just a fact that he was going to amount to nothing, it wasn’t a thing that ever made him any less persistent in his hobbies. In fact, he was almost glad she was around, and that she was a relatively respectable human being on the outside, because it left more space for him to be the scummy lowlife he had set himself up to be. At least this way, his parents had something to focus their doting expectations on. So he had peace to continue to spiral into his degeneracy.

But these last two years he had spent every waking hour of his life running away from the impending fate. Next year would be his last year of high school, and after that, adult independence loomed like a noose over his entire frame. And it was his little sister’s aging that truly made that realization undeniable, with each day she grew, and became more alike to him in frame and voice, he realized his time was running out.

An office job? A day of hard labor physically? A study in something he had no interest in? There was not a single path that he found he looked forward to, and if he was being honest, he much preferred the thought of blackness to it all. At least in death he might be able to escape that gun barrel he felt metaphorically shoved down his revolting throat.

These thoughts weren’t new, so he did what he always did. He opened his web browser, logged into his blog, and made a simple post.

rocketeer: sup

The notification caught Saihara off guard, making him jump a bit in his computer chair as he had just begun to slouch. He hadn’t even posted less than three seconds ago, could the preachers at least give him a reprieve before they jumped on his ass and tried to talk him off a suicidal ledge?

Tapping on the messaging function, Saihara pondered his response in the empty box for only a few seconds, before his general fatigue of life overtook him and typed out words drenched in exhaustion.

UltimateDetective: … Do I know you?

rocketeer: nah, I don’t think so

…That was it? That was _all_ this person was going to say? Saihara genuinely sat for about three minutes, waiting for the typing notification to pop up, but it never did. That seemed to be all they were going to give him.

UltimateDetective: Okay…

Rocketeer: I saw your most recent post

This had to be a new record, if only he had timed it. It was the quickest any do-gooder netizen had jumped on one of his posts, flooding his comments and messages with incessant positivity, to combat whatever negative emotions he had typed out.

_‘Don’t give up hope!’_

_‘You want to join Danganronpa, right? You can’t die here!’_

_‘Hope is the only way to keep moving forward!’_

UltimateDetective: How did you even see it?

This person clearly didn’t follow him, there was no symbol next to his icon indicating it, and Saihara had never even seen his name before. He had managed to swindle an ingame URL after literal years of maneuvering, but he was by no means a large content creator. He knew his friends’ names, and the regulars in his notifications.

Okay… Maneuvering was a bit of an understatement. It really was easy to find someone’s IP address though, and once he started putting letters through their mail slot, first asking, then telling, them to give up the URL of his dreams, he thought any sane person would relent. It was clear he wanted it more than them, right? What wasn’t easy was fitting the dead rat through the tiny sliver in their door, and then the rotting bird, without anyone else noticing.

Saihara was genuinely surprised that those two instances were enough to make the person hand it over, just over a bit of roadkill. He would have never given that up for anything in the world, but their squeamishness was just proof enough to him that they didn’t deserve it. At least now, he could guard it with his own devotion.

But that was beside the point.

rocketeer: it was on the main feed

People actually scrolled through that? It was a congregation of every post made by the entire userbase, and it updated every half second, at least, with each new addition. It was a mess, no one really used it past their first month of being on the site, it was much more convenient to stay on your mutual feed.

Before Saihara could formulate a response, another message had arrived, reading cryptically:

rocketeer: do you need help with that?

The boy’s brows visibly pulled together as he reread it, clicking off screen for a moment to go back to his own post. Had he messed up and accidentally typo-ed? Posted the wrong thing? He had been sure it-

Yes, it was the same as before. He hadn’t made any mistakes, the post still read:

_“I want to die.”_

UltimateDetective: ... Are you asking me if I need help with dying?

rocketeer: yeah lol

“Wh…” Saihara made a physically exasperated noise in person, stuck somewhere between disbelief and pure confusion. What was so matter-of-fact about that?

Erring on the side of ending the conversation before it got too weird, he typed back a rather curt message. Even if this person did like Danganronpa, this was just too unsettling for his brain right now, he was not in the mood for whatever this was. He wasn’t even sure if this was any better than the preachy internet doorbell-ringers that cheered him on to stay alive through their anonymity.

UltimateDetective: I think I’ll pass

rocketeer: okay

rocketeer: lmk if you ever change your mind

The boy’s hand darted out and shut off his monitor immediately after reading the message, the screen clicking to back and mirroring his disgusting face again. This time though, his pupils looked wide, and the pulse in his neck was almost visible, his own thoughts filtering through his eyes expressively.

What the hell was that?

 

* * *

 

 

“Ouma-kun!” Saihara swore the other boy jumped a full meter out of his uniform at the sound of his voice, his shoulders flinching upward as if something was about to come bite him in his neck and tackle him to the ground. Ouma whipped his head around so fast it made his vision spin, looking around for the familiar cadence that called his name down the hallway, the fear still not melting from his face when he made eye contact with him.

“Saihara-kun! What are you-“ Ouma stepped forward to approach the other, but his jittery frame caused him to trip over the toe of his already ill-sized loafers, sending the overbearing stacks of papers in his arms tilting to the ground. He managed to keep himself standing, but the whole top of the pile scattered to the tile, twisting and floating across the floor as they escaped their manila folders and covered the floor.

“Ah!” Ouma’s emote was both surprised and broken, the deepness of his eyes seeming to swim with unspeakable emotions for a few second before he immediately bent down to start collecting what he had lost.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you…” Saihara closed the gap between them and squatted down as well, reaching out for the closest paper that had drifted toward his feet. Oh, it was a test from someone in his grade, covered in red markings. It seemed Ouma was running errands after school like he had said.

Before Saihara could get a good look at the score next to the name, the paper was snatched from his hand quickly, flying out of his view and leaving only Ouma’s panicked face in his gaze.

“S-Sorry! I just can’t- The teachers are pretty strict about not showing the scores to anyone! If they saw you would get in a lot of trouble, and I wouldn’t be able to-“ It made since this was the type of job they could only trust Ouma with. What other person in the school would be able to resist the temptation of sharing test scores, and fixing your own, than the friendless and pure Ouma Kokichi. _(Pure as far as they were concerned.)_

Ouma looked terrified after realizing what he had done, quickly scrambling to hide the paper under the now disorganized stack in his hand while he attempted to apologize. He couldn’t believe he had handled Saihara so roughly, but he was still trying to process the situation. It was like each time the other came around him, he was even more incapable than he already was to begin with, his heart thrumming in his ears to the point where he couldn’t hear anything else being said around him, just a dull roar that focused entirely around Saihara’s face.

“Oh, I see…” Saihara wasn’t really perturbed, but he kept his eyes relatively unfixed as he began picking up other scattered pieces, turning them upside down if they weren’t already to indicate his avoidance of the circled scores and mistakes. But it really wasn’t his fault he caught the number next to his English score before he swiftly handed it over. 75, not surprising.

“Can… Can I help you with something?” Ouma looked up when the papers were finally collected, but they sat mismatched and jumbled in his grasp, threatening to fall at any moment. He strained his fingers to keep them from slipping, and focused on Saihara’s face, sure he would fix them later and not wanting to make the other wait.

“Ah, well, I was just wondering if um,” He glanced down at their shoes directly parallel from each other, one bright and new, the other worn and tattered, seeing the space between them seem to close in his gaze. “Did you want to go home together today?”

When Ouma’s only answer was dead silence, Saihara looked back up, feeling a need to explain himself, “You’ve just said we ride the same train home, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen you, so I figured we could start taking the train together… Also, my parents aren’t home today, so... If you wanted to, I guess you could… come over?”

Alone in his own home with Ouma. There were endless possibilities packed into that sentence, and just the thought made Saihara’s heart beat at a double speed. Sure, there was a lot of things he could do to Ouma if they had a space to themselves for so long, but something in the uneven pattering in his chest told him that it wasn’t just the sexual thoughts that were making him anxious.

He wondered if Ouma would like his room… And if they could finally watch Danganronpa together… Or Saihara could show him all of his merch (his Kirigiri shrine was a bit legendary)… If not, they could just talk… He supposed? There was a lot he felt like they hadn’t said to each other, and he had been thinking, a bit embarrassingly much so, about Ouma’s comments on his sewing skill and his club activities. It was in those moments that Saihara realized he really didn’t know a thing about him.

And the oddest part was… he wasn’t okay with that. And he didn’t fully understand why.

Glancing up through his lashes and trying desperately to calm his warm face, Saihara awaited Ouma’s answer, one he had assumed would be an enthusiastic yes.

But Ouma looked mortified.

His eyes were filled with this intense fear, and his whole body was rigid, his long nails digging into the papers in his grip in a careless way not normal of him. He scuttled backward a bit, and stood immediately, putting as much space between them as he could while still being within talking distance. It happened to quickly, Saihara wasn’t able to react, but even if he had the opportunity, he wasn’t sure he would have been able to.

“No! I-I mean, I’m sorry, I can’t!” Ouma struggled to respond, but he knew whatever excuse he gave it wouldn’t be enough. Yet, he tried. “I have a lot of errands to finish, and I wouldn’t want you to wait around.”

“That’s… I mean, that’s okay, I wouldn’t mind waiting-“ Saihara was still bent to the ground in shock, and Ouma only vehemently shook his head, sending his wild hair flying.

“No, you really can’t! I can’t go home with you, not today, or ever- I’m really sorry Saihara-kun!” Ouma took a few steps backward, before turning around, sprinting off down the hallway after his borderline-yell of a denial. Saihara had never heard the timid boy sound so determined, so unmovable about something in the entire time he had known him, and it had been about not spending time together.

Did he really hate him that much now…?

Ouma rounded the nearest corner and managed to keep his work in his hands, despite his stumbling, pressing his back up against the white wall and panting. His legs were shaking, the knobby bits of his knees almost slamming together as he curled in on himself and tried to catch his breath, uselessly. It wasn’t the small sprint that had knocked the wind out of him, but Saihara’s face, the misunderstanding and sheer hurt in his eyes only registering in Ouma’s gaze for a few seconds before he had turned away and left him there.

He didn’t understand, he didn’t understand at all!

If they started going home together, Ouma wouldn’t be able to watch over him. If Saihara had his eyes on Ouma, then he would never be able to follow him off the train without being noticed, he could never make sure the other got home safely ever again. Ouma loved Saihara, he desperately wanted to spend more time with him, and he thought he wanted that more than anything in the world. But even through his overwhelming happiness at being invited to something so precious by Saihara, he had known it wasn’t right, because he loved him more than he loved his own happiness.

So he had to, he had to sacrifice that time they could spend together for the sake of Saihara, and his own sanity. It wasn’t an understatement to say that if he didn’t spend most of his day watching the other, he would lose his mind.

But… Saihara didn’t understand! He could never tell him that! There was no lie, no excuse Ouma could think up that would explain it all away, and he didn’t want to lie, not after receiving such an invaluable invitation. Saihara deserved the truth, but Ouma could never give him that… He couldn’t even give him the benefit of a noble lie!

And as a result he ran, and he cried, sliding to the floor as his shoulders shook worthlessly. The important papers in his hand became dropped and soaked with tears, the brief sadness in Saihara’s eyes all that Ouma could see, even when he pressed his fingers into his closed eyelids so hard colors burst behind them.

_‘I’m so, so sorry, Saihara-kun!’_

Saihara spent his commute home in true silence, not listening to any music, or any one sound around him. He didn’t even check his phone, knowing that whatever notifications passed across the screen, it wouldn’t make a difference.

There was a baby crying on the train, the mother desperately trying to calm it down to no avail. Saihara watched the entire time, and at one point vividly remembered wondering what the hell the baby had to cry about.

Then it threw up on its mother’s legs, and he got up and left the train.

Coming home to an empty house had always been the highlight of his day, but now, it seemed to make everything worse. As if the silence that answered back was laughing at him, digging at the hole in his chest with a jagged spoon, making it deepen and grow. Why he had expected to enter through the door with Ouma was beyond him, but he felt embarrassed now that he had even had that thought leaving this morning.

It was his fault, for thinking anyone would ever want to be around his sick self for more than a few days.

As he lumbered up the stairs to his room, and entered it, he didn’t even have it in his heart to be angry at the other boy. Normally, some sort of rage would have settled inside of him, like it had before, to think that Ouma had only spoken words full of air. That he had lied, and only said those things for his own entertainment, never planning to be around Saihara for more than it suited him.

But, could anyone really blame him? For not wanting to be around Saihara, he meant. There really wasn’t anything positive to be gained from it, and as more time passed, and the weird, yet familiar, hollowness swallowed up his entire mind, he was aware he didn’t even want to be around himself.

He got this way sometimes, so high he never thought he would fall, then so low he could never see himself crawling out of the hole he had dug with his own hands. But this felt eternal now, nothing around him to pull him out of this entirely internal pit he tumbled into. No nagging mother, no venomous sister, no sweet-faced Ouma, just himself and the thoughts he was left with.

He looked somehow worse in the reflection on his computer screen today, but he was past the point of self-loathing over his appearance. He needed to erase his _entire_ self; then, then he would be happy.

The message from the mystery person was still open from yesterday when his computer decided to reboot, and he typed out a simple ‘Hey’, his energy too low for much else. He didn’t even have time to regret it, before they responded promptly, equally as unenthusiastic.

rocketeer: hey

UltimateDetective: Can you meet up today?

rocketeer: sure

Saihara had his head laying down in his arms atop the desk when the second message startled him enough to lift it, his tired eyes dragging over the words, eventually opening larger in interest. Did they really mean it…?

rocketeer: DR café in Tokyo in an hour?

UltimateDetective: Okay, sure.

rocketeer: I’ll be there

Saihara needed to leave right away, if they were really going to meet there…! It took him 30 minutes to get into the city itself, not including transportation to the café. Scrambling around his room to collect his wallet and bag, he barely had time to think on what he was doing, or what the implications were of meeting a stranger he had never interacted with more than once. Besides, hadn’t they offered to… essentially… kill him?

Something about that was exciting, and he couldn’t deny that was the whole reason he had messaged them in the first place, through his emotional breakdown. When Saihara looked at himself in the mirror, straightening his tie, he didn’t see someone afraid to die. He saw someone ready for it.

Besides, weren’t bad decisions his forte?

 

* * *

 

 

Saihara entered the café just as his watch illuminated 17:59, and he let out a mild sigh of relief. He had made it on time, but more importantly, he had made it before last order, so he’d be able to order the buns based off of Kirigiri’s design, dyed purple with black bean paste inside. His favorite.

Pulling his eyes away from the clockface reluctantly, he looked around the café with an unsure gaze, passing by every young person and older gentleman occupying the artfully crafted booths. The black and white checkers were splattered in neon pink, and each one held someone dining with another person, gushing over their phones together, or lamenting over their blind box pulls. They all seemed content, and not waiting for anyone else to accompany them, so much so that for a brief moment Saihara thought he had been stood up.

It wasn’t as if he was uncomfortable coming to these places alone, he usually always was, but this time he had thought it would be different. He had thought, at least, until his eyes fell on the booth tucked in the corner, with one person inside.

 _‘Is that…?’_ Saihara wasn’t sure why he was nervous, but he stepped forward with an unsureness that made him stick out like a sore thumb. He looked like he didn’t belong, like some sort of normal person that had stumbled into the café in hopes of a good cup of coffee and nothing more, aware others were watching his stuttering movements.

Curling a hand around the strap of his bag across his body, he surged forward, his feet pattering across the bespattered tile toward the lone diner. By the time he was almost there, he realized just how impulsive and reckless he was being, he wasn’t even sure this was the right person. But at this point, he had not a single ounce of caring in his body.

“Um…!” He exclaimed once he was close enough to be heard. He came to a skidding halt, his feet peeking just under the booth, the stranger’s face still turned away from him but visible now.

The man (boy?) looked to the left, first at Saihara’s half-hidden shoes, then up his legs, his anxiously gripping hands, and to his face, so slow Saihara could have counted the seconds on his hand. He felt like he was being eaten alive by his gaze, and it was certainly not a relaxing feeling, the wispy hairs on the back of his neck actually standing up by the time his eyes were lifted to his.

There was something weirdly primal in his purple eyes, predatorial. _Terrifying_.

“Shuichi.” The usage of his first name severed the sluggish atmosphere cleanly in half, making the other jolt back into his body, unaware how long he had been standing there. Had this stranger really just used his name, his first name of all things? He was positive he had never gone by his own name online, certainly not his first one, and if this was who he thought it was, then…

“Uh, excuse me?” Saihara took an instinctive step back, but was quite literally forced to stop by the other’s lowering of his eyebrows, the thick lines hanging heavy over his electric eyes.

“Go ahead and sit down,” he nodded his head in the direction to the booth across form him, but never looked away, still paralyzing Saihara with his fixed stare.

“Uhhhh…” He sounded like he was braindead, too bewildered to make any sound of substance as the other seemed to give up with a small click of annoyance, finally looking away as he placed his chin in his palm. “I don’t know if that’s…”

The other didn’t even look back when Saihara had managed to produce actual words, just chewing thoughtfully on the toothpick placed between his lips, a whole collection of them now visible by his other unoccupied hand. He took the one from his mouth and discarded it to the floor beneath the table, picking another up from the line and setting it in his teeth silently, grinding down on the unmarked wood.

“You may be fine with meeting some random person from the internet without knowing anything about ‘em, but I’m not,” he finally let his eyes drawl back over to Saihara, seeming uninterested now. “It’s not like you even try to hide behind any sort of security or whatever. Finding your name was easy.”

“O-Oh…” It wasn’t the honestly sensible truth that made Saihara stutter, but the rough way in which the other talked. It wasn’t the type of speech, or the type of person that used it, that Saihara was necessarily familiar with. Someone can only undo so much social stigmatization, and the gelled hair and unkempt uniform were enough of an indicator of what Saihara had gotten himself into.

Was he about to have the shit kicked out of him, and all of his stuff stolen? And that was all? He suddenly regretted bringing the extra money his parents left him in case of an emergency, but it was too late to hide it somewhere less conspicuous than his wallet now. He couldn’t even be sure his underwear would be safe.

“So, are you gonna sit down or not?”

Saihara had a choice at this point, one he hadn’t truly considered up until that moment. It was blaringly obvious he was in control of his fate here, a human being with his own hand in his actions. He could continue down whatever winding, doomed path this was, starting with a delinquent in a neon pink booth and ending God knows where, or pick up whatever self-worth he had left and go home. There were benefits and disadvantages to both, but it wasn’t up to him, as his body slid into the fluffily padded seat before he truly debated his options. To him, there weren’t any. He was a slave to his mind and what it screamed, and right now, it was short-circuiting to the point where any reprieve, even being ordered around, was enough.

The man watched with a renewed intensity, but there was still a languidness to his mask, like he was trying to keep that expression inside. Or maybe that was just the way his face looked, it wasn’t like Saihara knew anything about him, and he was mostly keeping his eyes down as he set his bag at his side and adjusted himself in the bouncy seat.

When there was no more fidgeting he could do, he glanced back up, his eyes unintentionally focusing on the way he chewed the toothpick in a circular motion, his small beard accentuating the motions. Realizing he was focusing too much on his mouth, Saihara darted his eyes away, but was stopped by a voice before he could reach for the menu out of sheer awkwardness.

“Are you scared?”

“Huh?” Saihara’s hands froze in their lifted position, awkwardly dangling between the rift that sat between them. Pulling them back, he looked down at his palms, placing them politely in his lap. He considered his next words thoughtfully, exploring the gnawing emptiness that persisted inside of him.

He didn’t really feel anything.

“Not really… Is there something I should be scared of?”

A shrug was the only answer he received, the other’s wide shoulders lifting and falling lazily, swishing the toothpick to the other side of his mouth, then back again. He watched Saihara intently, and the other kept his eyes low, a bubble of irritation beginning to show itself inside of him as he drowned in the silence. It felt like he wasn’t getting what he thought he would out of this.

The depressive-mania he had rode in a wave to this place wasn’t changing anything, and it was left without an outlet, aside from the cryptic stranger across from him. This was supposed to… distract him, kill him, end the hollowness that had scraped at his bones earlier, but it wasn’t doing any of that. It was just annoying him.

Why he didn’t realize that that was a change in and of itself, was unclear.

“Dunno, most people are scared when they meet me.” The stranger seemed oblivious to the mental distress the other was under, or if he was, he wasn’t outwardly reacting to it. Saihara looked up through his eyelashes, while his head remained bent, and gave his appearance a prolonged observation, before opening his dry mouth.

“Maybe there’s a reason for that.” Honestly, did he not expect people to be frightened of him when he looked the way he did? His height and larger frame weren’t his choice, obviously, but the rest was, and he was exactly the type of person Saihara’s mother would have grabbed his hand and led him across the street away from if they approached each other. In fact, he somewhat reminded him of those gutter-dwellers from the bathroom, and just the thought made a vicious, though albeit dull now, ferocity flash in his gaze.

That was a choice, and so was being so oppressively cryptic that it made even the on edge, over-aware boy confused.

Time seemed to stop at that moment, while Saihara peered up at the stranger with a wild look in his eyes. He was frozen, not breathing, only the pulse in his tan neck signifying he was alive or listening. His fingers twitched impulsively, and even his toothpick had ceased its repetitive, unnerving movements, like he was the one now petrified into place.

It wasn’t out of fear, though, Saihara was about as terrifying to him as a declawed, pissed off kitten. But it was out of excitement, enthrallment, and finally, relief.

Momota Kaito had an M.O., which is what the detectives labeled it, or a signature, the behavioral analysists called it, but he just preferred to simply call it a preference. While in the beginning he had never really been picky, he took what he could get, as the bodies piled up and his experience grew, the act simply wasn’t enough anymore.

It all went back to the first time he had ever killed someone, or more properly, taken a life. It hadn’t even been his intention, which was the funniest part about it, if such things could be considered hilarious in any regard. Just a rival gang member, one that couldn’t shut his mouth or keep his distance, had attempted to jump him while he was walking home from school.

Fist fights were regular, and something Momota was more than prepared for at any given moment. But that day, the other had managed to get the upper hand over him, wrapping his arm around his neck and forcing him against the wall, both figuratively and literally.

Once the danger fully settled into his choked mind, and the air being denied from his body became painful, it was like something opened inside of him. A gate, a heavy metal door kept locked, despite his violent acts, was kicked down and all of the brutal acid built up inside of him surged out.

It began with a reversal of the positions, and it was as if an unfound strength had weaved itself into his already well-built muscles. He was easily able to wrestle the man to the ground, and pin him by the shoulders with his knees, towering over him as the garbage and dirt silhouetted his frame. Normally, Momota would have just scared him, spit on him, landed one punch or two for measure, and left without so much as a care. But he was alone this time, this time he was truly alone, without his gang, and without any shoddy barricade keeping the boiling truth of his nature inside.

The truth? There was just so much anger, a constant buzzing inside of his insides that set his whole body on fire. One punch, it should have been enough. But it wasn’t. Two punches, if two was enough for anyone, then they certainly weren’t the type of person Momota was.

So, he kept punching, he kept punching until his arms gave out and his fingers were close to broken. The bones in a human’s face are delicate, but they’re still bones, and his knuckles were bruised and swollen by the time the other man’s face had caved in. If it wasn’t for his calloused skin and experience in how to correctly position your fingers to avoid it, he had no doubt his entire hand would be fractured. There was a punch for everything in his endless swarm of them, one for his father, for the smug ass teachers, for the upper-class, for the politicians, for anything he found himself seething at every day.

The guy had long since died, and Momota had never even noticed, his gurgling turning to dead silence that was punctuated only by the sound of the streetlight buzzing with the sizzle of bugs flocking to its light. His face was nothing but a hole, and his body was limp, no writhing or wriggling left in its limbs.

It was a corpse now, not a person, and it had taken the brunt of Momota’s fury. It was the first person he had ever revealed himself too. There was a kind of beauty in its mangled face, when you considered it that way.

Momota had assumed he would feel bad, but the adrenaline never settled. He never cried as he panted dryly, and when he looked down at his own body, he realized he was painfully hard.

After that, life became much more interesting, as it became a chase for that feeling again. A simple beating of another yankee was never enough, and he knew it wouldn’t be. But hunting people for sport is extremely difficult, much more so than it is depicted as, and he knew shrewdly through his yearning that he needed to be cautious, if he was ever going to experience that release ever again.

Besides, it wasn’t like he was going for something specific. He wasn’t some sick freak after kids, and he had no interest in picking a particularly pretty woman off the street, it wasn’t even the person that did it for him. There was no ‘settling’ involved in his hobby, or a thirst either, not for anything in particular.

Upon searching the web one day he came upon something interesting, though, and it gave him the most wonderful, and if he had to say, intelligent idea he thought a person ever had.

_I’m tired of living, but I don’t want to kill myself. I’m too weak, and I couldn’t handle the idea of burdening my family like that. I’ve tried 5 times already and I’ve chickened out each one, lol._

_Can someone else kill me?_

He saw his opportunity, and promptly messaged the other person, though he never received a response. It was still the beginning of the realization, one that solved every single one of his problems.

Why not kill people that wanted to die? There was no forensic mess past the body, they would deliver themselves to your door and do it willingly. Most of these people were losers anyway, there was a reason they wanted to die so badly without the conviction, so it was rare someone would come looking for them in the first place. And at the end of the day, he was doing a service to society and the people he killed. Not that he actually cared about that part.

And that became the beginning of his vocation, killing suicidal people. Momota wasn’t a wordsmith, but if he was, he was sure he could eloquently craft a defense for what he was doing, maybe write some famous poem about it. But that stuff didn’t interest him, if he was going to become famous, it was going to be for one thing only. Having a body count that could never be defeated.

It seemed like he had found the gold mine for someone of his inclination, but as it moved along, he began to comprehend why it wasn’t as popular as its appeal leant it to be. It was… boring. He basically functioned as these people’s therapists for a few hours, listened to them talk and make their last bits of peace with the world, then offed them. There was no carnality to it, none of the release he had known that first night, and when it minimized and minimized each time, he lost his gratification in it.

Obviously, he wasn’t going to stop, just stopping was out of the question, it wasn’t even a consideration. But it still begged the question, would he ever feel that rush again?

Which was why this boy across from him, Saihara Shuichi, excited him so much. Not only was there hesitation in his movements, there was even vigor in his eyes. Most people walked into Momota’s trap resigned, and ready, but this boy didn’t _really_ want to die, not yet at least.

But he was going to, and Momota felt his heart pounding rapidly at the thought of it all.

“I’m Momota Kaito,” he stuck his now still hand out over the table as he spoke, shocking the other so every bit of the malice dripped from his face.

“Oh… I’m Saihara Shuichi.” Tentatively, he let the other’s hand all but swallow his, shaking it strongly enough that his frail arm jiggled. “Nice to meet you, Momota-kun… I guess?”

“Kaito’s fine.”

“Wh-What?” He had called Saihara by his first name now that he recalled, and before everything else, it had struck him as the oddest thing about him. Some stranger he had never introduced himself to, calling him by his first name, was bizarre enough as it was, but hearing his personal name said in an unfamiliar voice was, how could he put it… Embarrassing? No one outside of Saihara’s family had ever called out to him with that word, and even though it was at the root just a word, a string of sounds and syllables, it held meaning.

“…I think I’ll stick with Momota.” Saihara retracted his hand, the lingering warmth of Momota’s hand feeling like a rough burn over his skin.

“It’s usually best to use first names in these situations,” Momota asserted, but it seemed Saihara wasn’t budging.

“’These situations… So, you’ve met a lot of people from online, then?” The sheer irony in the statement almost made Momota burst out in laughter, having to physically bite his tongue inside of his mouth to keep from letting out his loud cackling. Had Saihara already forgotten? The pretenses under which they had met, the mutual understanding of their meetup, or what Momota had thought was mutual? Did he  just come to meet up with him because something had upset him, or he had nothing better to do?

God, Momota wanted to kill him so badly right now. Restraint, he needed to exercise restraint.

Burying the desire, and the topic, he glanced to the side at the various pictures of cartoon characters he had no interest in scattered across the wall. His lips still managed to flick upward despite his tight control, and Saihara noticed only briefly before the other spoke, “You could say that…”

“But really,” dragging his eyes from the wall and back over to Saihara, he kept his voice as serious and commanding as he could, which was normally not so difficult, but the comedic value of the situation and his palpable excitement was making it difficult. “Call me Kaito.”

It didn’t sound like a suggestion, and despite the embarrassment, Saihara acquiesced. He had a feeling even if he didn’t, Momota would keep calling him by his first name anyway.

“Okay… Kaito-kun.”

Saihara ordered drinks after that, a taro milk tea with boba for himself, the purple drink accompanied by a small coaster of his favorite Detective, a cartoonish magnifying glass lifted her serious face. He owned about 50 of this same exact coaster, but ordering anything else seemed like a heinous crime. Momota asserted he would only be having black coffee, and while he sipped Saihara waited expectantly for him to flip the randomly chosen coaster he had been given, only to be met with another wordless sip.

“Don’t you want to see who you got?” He pointed at the cardboard facedown against the table as a chewy bubble sucked up through the straw and into his mouth. Momota merely glanced at what he considered worthless paper, before taking his severe gaze back to Saihara, shrugging his large shoulders.

“That reminds me, M-… Kaito-kun, who’s your favorite Danganronpa character?” The boy never removed the straw from his mouth as he spoke, muffling his words slightly but leaving him with the ability to continue sipping when his question was done. His cheeks puffed out with the slush and boba, and he waited to hear the name of some big-breasted crowd pleaser or singular macho type, but was met with dead silence again.

“Don’t have one,” Momota finally responded, and this caused Saihara to choke on his ill-swallowed ball of tapioca.

“H-Huh? Then why are you on the site?” Saihara managed to ask once he was done hacking, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, smearing spit and purple residue over it. The website they had met on wasn’t specifically Danganronpa based, but a majority of its users were fans, plus he had chosen to meet here of all places.

 Momota answered with the same, cryptic shrug again, abandoning his mediocre cup of coffee in favor of tossing another toothpick into his mouth. The truth? Danganronpa fans were fucking freaks. Otaku always had a way with wanting to die, and about half of the people he had already killed were those nerdy types that never left their repugnant rooms in the first place. At least with the Danganronpa thing, he had imagined they would come up with some wild ways to die. Unfortunately, when the time comes around, most people will crumble at the thought of a painful death and ask for something painless and equally as banal.

“I’m on a lotta websites,” Momota offered, and Saihara nodded, as if he could ever comprehend the hidden truth behind that statement.

“Me too, I guess. But there has to be some character you like, right?” The boy brought a hand to his lip in thought, tapping against it absentmindedly. “Probably the macho type, right? Or maybe the delinquents, huh? Actually, now that I think about it...”

Saihara brought his eyes down from the ceiling to study the tan boy, causing the other to freeze his idle motions. There was something frenzied in the glint in his pupils, like he had come to some sort of amazing conclusion or realization. It frightened Momota for a minute, he wasn’t sure if he had been caught, or walking into an ambush without ever noticing.

“You could do that type of character perfectly! Like, in the show! If you got a little bigger you could be the buff one, I guess, but then you probably wouldn’t live, hah.” He spoke so freely at the thought of another person’s death, but that wasn’t what unsettled Momota. It was the stereotyping, he acted like he had walked in here screaming and punching any living thing that moved, some hashed out formula that rolled his R’s every time he spoke. Technically, Momota was that stereotype, he was a yankee for more than a penchant for punching things. But he hated that.

There was no other choice for someone like him. When you didn’t have money, when you didn’t have a name worthy of an ounce of respect, when you had nothing but an empty future and a rage against an enemy you couldn’t clarify or confront, you became a boy that punched things. That didn’t mean he embraced his dead end future, or didn’t resent the card society had dealt him. It was everyone else that had turned him rotten.

“Maybe if they gave me a million bucks, sure,” Kaito could keep the bitterness out of his expression, but not out of his warbled voice, the broken chuckle he gave sounding flat and far from impressed. The other seemed to not pick up on this, tilting his head and blinking a few times as if he was listening to an alien language.

“Huh…? Wait, do you _really_ not know anything about Danganronpa? Of course, you get a big prize when you win, and you’ll have all the jobs in the world after that. Though, you can forgo all that and keep being in the game, which is what I would do! I mean, who cares about the money?” Saihara was laughing in excitement, a light, tinkling sound that matched the happiness on his face. He really liked that fucked up show that much, then?

“I guess you do though, Kaito-kun. But you should get into Danganronpa, anyway! I’m sure you’ll really, really like it.” Forgoing the fact that they knew literally nothing about each other, aside from whatever was readily available on the internet (which definitely wasn’t a lot), Saihara prattled on, lost now inside the intoxicating world of his deepest interest. But Momota was interested now, too.

Getting paid to kill people? Becoming famous for murdering? Why had he never considered this before? Of course, he could win, he was quite sure not a single messed up kid that applied for that show had the experience he had, or the pure drive for the lust of the kill, and the monetary payout. Once he had all that money, had as much fun as he wanted destroying freely for just his own entertainment, anything would be possible. To hell with staying in the show, when he made a name for himself, he was sure fans would flock to him begging to be killed in an array of ludicrous, tantalizing ways.

Was he getting ahead of himself? Who cared. He could let his mind wander as Saihara rambled, ordering another drink for them both as he began from the very beginning of the show. Momota still listened, though, more attentively now than he ever had before, but his consciousness was somewhere very far away, in the land of Kings and massacre.

Saihara must have talked freely for over two hours, his hand motions extreme and his high voice boisterous. He never got around to ordering food, but by the time they were politely asked to leave for closing, he had sucked down another two drinks and was riding a sugar rush along with a new type of mania. He felt better, he genuinely did, and as he clutched the strap of his bag as the door jingled shut behind him he was smiling. It hadn’t been a mistake after all, and while he was very much still alive, he didn’t find a single problem with that. He had made another friend, after all… Something he never thought would happen.

“Oh!” Remembering the emptiness of his home, now with elation as opposed to desolation, he turned to Momota, who was picking out a cigarette from his back pocket. “Actually, my parents are out of town right now, so if you wanted to come over we could start watching Danganronpa tonight. We could definitely finish the first one, I think.”

This was just a perfect idea. No nagging sister, or judgmental parents, Saihara could invite someone like him over without any issues now more than ever. He waited expectantly, starting to get that stinging nervousness deep in his stomach when it took the taller boy a while to respond, lighting his cigarette and taking a long huff. If he was turned down for the second time in a day, he wasn’t sure what was going to happen to him.

_‘So no family around, huh?’_

Momota covered his vicious grin with an exhale of smoke, blanketing Saihara’s face, making him cough excessively and wave it from his gaze. When it cleared, he was looking at Momota with large, gold eyes, and the other turned away slightly, mimicking consideration.

“Not sure I can go over tonight…” Momota very well couldn’t kill him in his own home, there was too much cleanup involved in what he was planning. And besides, he couldn’t do it anywhere other than his own house.

Watching the way Saihara’s shoulders fell, like the whole world had been taken away from him, really almost pulled a laugh out of Momota, but he managed to suppress it inside as he said, “But we can go to my place. I live close.”

Saihara perked back up and nodded exuberantly, and the trap closed. He was lodged between the metal jaws now, and he was never going to escape. His body might as well be torn to shreds the moment he agreed, left broken and vacant the second his head shook up and down. He was Momota’s now.

 

* * *

 

 

The trip to Momota’s house was filled with chatter again, but the closer they got, the more unresponsive and quiet he became. Saihara barely noticed at first, but when they reached his neighborhood, dilapidated and broken but nowhere on the scale of Ouma’s, he became aware his grunts of agreement and vocalizations in response to whatever he was prattling had ceased completely. There was something heavy in the air, the creaking homes and flickering streetlights making the unsettling vibe register, only faintly, to the ecstatic Saihara. He didn’t feel afraid, at all, but when Momota unlocked the door to his home without another word, the scraped wood groaning in protest, he sensed something sinister from inside of the room.

There was a familiar, wet, dank smell that radiated out from inside, and it took only two more steps for Saihara to make out exactly what it was. It was blood, it was blood. It was old, and barely there, but it was blood.

“Um, Kaito-ku-?” Two arms wrapped themselves underneath his armpits, as strong as immovable bars of steel, and the door slammed shut behind him deafeningly. Saihara made a squeak of shock at the sudden, jarring movement of being restrained, but could barely begin to wiggle before he was lifted up from the ground.

“W-Wait…? Kaito-kun?! What are you doing?” Saihara kicked his legs around, his heel connecting with the shin behind him only once, but not seeming to do enough damage to stop his captivity. “Let go-“

“Did you forget?” Momota’s voice was directly in his ear, gravely and low, with something different behind it now. Something truly hideous.

“Wh-What?” Saihara felt him begin to move, carrying him like he was a weightless ragdoll down the pitch-black hallway, and deeper into that overwhelming scent. It stretched before him in a never-ending darkness, and Saihara disappeared into it, his body swinging back and forth as he was transported against his will.

“Why we met up in the first place. Do you really think I met up with you to talk about some fuckin’ Danganronpa bullshit?” Saihara let out a disbelieving noise and attempted to turn his head enough to see Momota’s face, to understand if he was joking. There was a smile in his voice, but it wasn’t one of a good nature, but something sick and vile. His neck couldn’t twist far enough, unfortunately, and all he saw were his lumbering shoulders in the side of his view.

“But we went to the café? And you’re the one that said-“

“You’re the one that said you wanted to die, Shuichi. We had some agreement going on, you can’t just change your mind,” as Momota spoke, Saihara could feel his body turning cold, the concept of the idiotic, quickly acquired happiness so foreign now he couldn’t believe he had ever felt it. “I told you I’d help you out, and you messaged me. Simple as that.”

“No! But I didn’t mean- I mean, I did want to die, I did, but I don’t anymore!” Saihara shouted, though he objectively knew that no one would hear him, so he raised his voice more for his own sanity. “So, let’s just stop, okay Kaito-kun?”

Momota froze his movements, Saihara’s legs swaying before stilling in the buzzing quietness. Then the laughter started, raucous and booming right in the frightened boy’s ear, making his whole-body jolt as much as it could in this restrained position. He was laughing so hard he was shaking them both violently.

“That’s good! You don’t want to die, but you’re going to,” Momota’s voice seemed to go up a few octaves as he cackled in an unhinged way, his presence and his noises covering Saihara completely. “I knew you were special.”

 _‘Special…?’_ There was a weird tug in his emotions as he thought that word, unsure how to describe which way it leaned. He was special because he didn’t want to be murdered, but it still made him special. Did that make him happy, or what exactly?

Momota began moving again once he got his enjoyment under control, but he was breathing heavier than before now, and Saihara hated the way his pungent, tobacco stained breath washed over the back of his neck and up his nose. But he couldn’t stop it, he could only dangle helplessly as he was pushed through a doorway into a new room, not clearer than the last.

He was powerless as he was tossed onto the floor like a sack of raw meat, as if it he didn’t have bones that would shatter. His face landed first, before anything else, and his nose immediately crunched painfully and erupted blood. It spilled over his lip, surprised it hadn’t split from the impact as well, and he coughed disgustingly as it coated his only ways of breathing and blocked off fresh air from reaching him. As he blubbered grossly on the floor, his hands too busy cradling his injured face to even attempt to push himself into a position where he could hypothetically escape, the light flashed on, louder than the silence now.

Momota’s footsteps were heavy enough to shake the floor, Saihara’s world at this point, making it shudder around him. Eyes going wide, he scrambled to sit up, but was caught before he could, his arms twisted behind his back in an unnatural position.

“Ow!” He screeched, closing one of his eyes as he flinched in searing pain, the handcuffs securing his discomfort permanently. His captor was quick, capturing his legs next, holding his thin ankles together with one hand, and ripping a large helping of duct tape off a roll with his teeth in the other. The jingling continued as Saihara tried to work his way out of the handcuffs, or come to understand them, getting nowhere other than causing a deep burn to begin on the skin of his wrists.

He got a good look at Momota as he was sealing his legs together, and saw he was no longer smiling. The amusement he had heard in his voice earlier seemed to have vanished from his face, and an intense concentration had replaced it, his eyes trained only on the repetitive circles he was making with the tape. Saihara had hoped he would look up at him, see his frightened eyes and his bloody skin and feel pity, if he felt anything at all.

But then Saihara realized, a few seconds before he almost mistakenly opened his mouth to call out his name, that that would be the worst-case scenario. He couldn’t pretend to comprehend or understand this stranger’s motives, but if he was anything like Saihara was, then that sight would only excite him further.

Saihara’s mouth was still open when he did look up, and there was that glimmer, the one Saihara had hoped to avoid. But instead of doing anything worse, he simply tore free another piece of tape, and sealed his mouth shut.

Duct tape wasn’t good for gagging people, Momota knew that, but he wasn’t actually trying to shut Saihara up. If anything, he was hoping it would fall off, that the other would work hard enough, scream hard enough, that it would fall off and he could hear every noise he made.

But it was time for him to concentrate, and he needed a bit of silence. Brushing his hands against his knees, he pushed himself to a stand, crossing the room and idly beginning to open drawers and doors, assembling his various tools and toys. There was so much he had prepared he never got to use, he needed to handle his time wisely. It didn’t take very long for people to die. Saihara followed his every move wordlessly, his eyes seeming to drown in the various stimuli surrounding him, all too much, too dreadful to handle.

There were bars hanging from the ceiling, there were chains, there was one… machine with handles and a padded chair that looked awfully familiar to some sort of BDSM device. He focused in on that one, and the large weights around it, visualizing being strapped to it as each heavy slab of metal was dropped on his toes and fingers in succession.

Momota turned to look at him when he heard his head stop shifting around, no longer brushing against the floor and creating a sliding noise. He saw Saihara trembling, his eyes fixated on the chair like it was the most horrendous (or exciting) thing he had ever seen.

Setting down the power drill in his hand, he walked over to the machine and set his fingers on it, seeing the other physically jump in response. Raising an eyebrow, and managing to smile, he wrapped his hand around the bar dangling from the top and pulled down on it, causing the weights to lift in the back from the ground and clatter together loudly.

“It’s a workout machine,” he explained flatly, and he let go of the bicep specific portion, the bar zipping back up to the top as the weights slammed against the floor with a garish sound. It caused Saihara to jump again, but Momota wasn’t amused anymore, instead going back to shifting about in the bins beneath his bed and in his closet.

It was quiet, aside from the metallic noises of knives and screwdrivers being gathered together, and Saihara felt precipitation building up behind the tape. The blood had already clogged itself and dried, but his quick breaths were causing the small piece of tape to slide off, and soon he’d be able to talk again.

But what would he even say?

There was a noise from his back pocket, a small ding signaling a message received, and he prayed Momota didn’t hear it. He reached for it desperately with his long fingers, but only succeeded in scraping at the top of it, the handcuffs limiting any sort of grabbing motion he could make as they were cinched together so tightly. He made a whimper as another message came through, the slick phone slipping from his sweaty grip each time he managed to touch it, but it didn’t seem like Momota even cared about the noises if he heard them.

That was, until a barrage came, a ding after ding after ding after ding that created a din in the room and drown out even the various commotion caused by the tools. He had been trying for a few minutes now to reach his phone, but it seemed he had run out of time, the other turning to look down at him with an annoyed look on his face.

He thundered over with quick steps and Saihara closed his eyes, unaware of the tears that rolled out of them as he did, before he was turned onto his stomach and a hand reached swiftly into his pocket. The phone was gone, and so was his chance to escape, if he ever even had one. A strange, somber acceptance settled inside of him after that, as he heard Momota unlock his phone with a swipe, and he kept his face pressed into the ground.

_‘So it’s really happening now… I’ll die here, not in Danganronpa, or doing anything really. Well… I guess I always said it was what I wanted.’_

Momota scrolled through the messages idly, not particularly interested in whatever it was, which was why he ignored it at first. But after such an extreme number of messages, he began to worry. If somehow his parents returned, and were looking for him, that could end badly, and definitely cut their time short. He was incensed at first, but as he began to read the dozens of words on the screen, it slowly subsided, along with his apprehension.

_Hey Saihara-kun, did you get home okay?_

_I’m really sorry about earlier… I know I can never explain myself, and it’s okay if you don’t forgive me._

_I just wanted to make sure you got home._

_It’s honestly fine if you never want to talk to me ever again, I understand. I just wanted to say I’m sorry… Or try to explain… I don’t know._

_I can’t stand the idea that I hurt your feelings, you didn’t do anything wrong._

_I’m so, so sorry._

_…Are you really at home?_

_Hello??_

_Sorry, I know I said it was okay if you never wanted to talk to me again, but I’m just worried._

_If you just tell me you’re okay, I promise I’ll leave you alone forever._

_Saihara-kun?_

_I don’t see anyone home at your house._

_I’m standing outside but there aren’t any lights on._

_Why won’t you answer the door?_

_Saihara-kun?_

Momota grit his teeth as he read, thoroughly disgusted by it all. Talk about clingy, this was way past an apology, and this person was now standing outside Saihara’s house like a creeper? Have some self-respect, no matter what they did, it was never an excuse to grovel to make yourself feel better about your mistakes masochistically.

But more than that, this now explained what had upset Saihara so much that he chose to message him back so quickly. Whatever they argued about, it caused all of this, and truthfully, Momota had to thank them.

“Who’s this?” Momota held out the phone, and Saihara finally lifted his head, his eyes looking heavy and resigned. But the second they scanned over the screen, and read the name projected, they went wide, something flickering behind them.

_‘Ouma-kun?!’_

He pulled the tape off of his mouth but Saihara didn’t even flinch, snapping his eyes up and down the screen, trying to read everything in such a short amount of time he was failing tremendously. ‘I’m sorry’, ‘Where are you?’, ‘I’m at your house’, it filtered into his mind but never stuck, sliding off the walls of his overheated brain until his mouth couldn’t form full words.

“Hey, answer me.”

“S-Sorry, that’s just… that’s my…”

His what? What was he even supposed to respond to that?

“…He’s just a classmate.”

“A classmate, huh?” What classmate acted that way toward another, especially a dude? Well, there was one straightforward way to test that theory, and just perhaps have some more fun in the meantime.

Momota should have stopped there. He should have put the phone down and continued with his plans without any more interference. But he wasn’t in his right mind, he had done his best to keep a calm countenance throughout the time he had been preparing for this, but his heart was slamming inside of his chest at a never decreasing rate, keeping his blood pressure high and his mind whizzing. If morality and logic could be applied to what he was doing at all, he certainly wasn’t making the most sound decisions, but he didn’t care.

Pushing himself to a stand, Saihara’s eyes followed him with a cluster of expectations and none, watching him recollect the duct tape, and another cloth object from the room. As it dangled from his hand, it took the outline of a blindfold, and the boy on the floor pulled his eyebrows together, wondering why he even owned that in the first place. He supposed it made sense that a murderer would be into those sorts of things too, when he considered it.

His head only flinched back slightly as the soft fabric was slipped over his eyes, comparatively pleasant and warm when put in conjunction with the duct tape that came after. His only remaining sense was his ability to hear, and in the muteness and blindness, he vividly caught the sound of the shutter button going off on his phone.

_One Attachment: Photo_

Momota snickered after pressing send, and when Saihara heard the noise, he swallowed the spit that had collected in his mouth but couldn’t be released. So Ouma was going to see him like this for the last time…

_What…?_

_Saihara-kun, what is this?_

_Is that you?_

_What is going on?_

“Does this kid ever chill out?” Momota spoke to himself, when he was unable to get a response in, the constant stream of messages never seeming to end. He glanced over the phone at the blindfolded boy on the floor, and saw him only shake his head in response, making him laugh again.

_yeah, that’s him_

_Who is this? You aren’t Saihara-kun._

_obviously_

_What are you doing to him?_

_nothing he doesn’t want_

Momota pulled a chair from his desk, dust covering the surface from months of disuse and apathy, and sat down. He crossed one leg over his thigh, tapping his foot idly, watching the typing bubble begin, then halt, then begin again, the reeling state of the other person’s mind evident even through the digital interaction.

_No, you’re wrong._

_I’m calling the police._

He let out a displeased noise, shaking his head at the futility of it all. The police, really? Was this kid mentally slow?

_no you’re not_

_whatever, I’ll just kill him right now_

Momota was enjoying this more than he should have, considering someone just got irreversibly involved in his plans. But the torment was new and fresh, after months of nothing other than monotonous draining of his favorite hobby.  He also enjoyed this type of destruction too, if he was being honest.

_No!_

_I’m sorry, I’m not going to call the police!_

_I promise I won’t so please don’t kill him, please! I’m sorry!_

_‘Much better,’_ the grinning boy thought as he stroked his beard while reading through the messages as they poured in. They were a bit too pacified for his tastes, no fight or spunk in them, but given the situation that was probably for the best.

At that point, he seriously considered his options, no longer reveling in the sheer amusement of it. If he let it go, and never responded again, at least until after he killed Saihara, his phone could get tracked back to his house, and no amount of cleaning could erase the technological bread crumbs. The one thing he had right now was Saihara’s life, and if he got rid of that so flippantly, there would be consequences.

But he still wasn’t mad at himself, not an ounce of regret filled his blood stream after digging this trench for himself. He wasn’t in the loser’s position, not yet, and if this continued where he thought it would, it would end with him on top, like it always did.

Two kills in one night… It would be a first for him, but tonight seemed like an unprecedented time for firsts.

_One Attachment: Location_

_come here and maybe you can save him_

_and remember, if you bring the police I’ll kill him and myself too before they get through the front door_

He set the phone face down on the hardwood after that, it wasn’t in his hands anymore. If that boy decided to come, like he knew he would, there was no feasible way Momota would be defeated. He was on his own turf, with the advantage in every way, mentally, physically, situationally, and emotionally.

That was right… He was never going to lose, not now, not ever. This type of thing, this was just his practice for when he decided to join Danganronpa, for when he needed to kill every single person in one night. Then, his fame and wealth would be secured, his place in history would be cemented in glowing, bright red lights. He was invincible.

Maybe then he would be happy.

Saihara was making muffled noises beneath him, and he looked down, trying to quiet the rush in his ears to comprehend what the other was attempting to say. When it was clearly not working, he leaned over and ripped the tape off hard enough it conveyed his displeasure at having his racing train of arrogant thoughts interrupted, the chair creaking in response as he did.

The restrained boy coughed for a few seconds when dried blood flaked into his mouth, but managed to calm his repulsion enough to ask, “What did he say?”

Momota glanced over at the phone, thinking deeply for a few seconds before he dragged his eyes back down to Saihara, even though he knew the other couldn’t see him. His whole body was tense as he waited for the answer, seeming to hold his breath, unclear if he was expecting the worst or best.

“You don’t need to worry about him anymore,” was Momota’s vague answer, but it seemed to be enough for Saihara, pulling his head into his body in a resigned position. Whatever had been said, it didn’t matter now. Ouma didn’t care about him anymore.

They sat in silence, one watching the other, one utterly blind, and a new sensation began to register in the tepid air. Saihara had gotten used to his restraints, and found an odd comfort in them, the tightness forced upon his body seeming to soothe him now. With his body forced so close together, his legs touching, his hands twitching past each other, he felt like he was being held, or embraced, almost. Even if it was just by himself, it had lost its ghastly terror, and seemed to become an accepted part of life.

Besides, he didn’t know how long he had been there, but Momota hadn’t even hurt him yet, at least not intentionally. He had been so tense, so ready for an indescribable pain to begin at any moment, that it had worn him raw and he was now complacent.

If he didn’t get to choose his death, at least he got experience being bound and gagged for once… And so roughly, it was really just like a fantasy, no obstinate and annoying reality to it.

He wasn’t sure if it was the acquiescing of his death that made his position so serene, or if he just really liked being tied up.

“How many people have you done this to…?” Saihara asked, swallowing afterward in preparation for the answer.

“You mean this? Or killed in general?” Momota rested his elbow on the desk with his face on his fist, watching the other shrug as if either path was acceptable. “I’ve killed probably ‘bout… 15 people so far. But this is my first time killing someone that doesn’t want to die… first time in a while, I guess.”

Saihara made no outward reaction to it, verbally at least, and Momota was a bit disappointed. No terror or fear? Oh well. He was a Danganronpa fan after all, that number most likely wasn’t incredibly impressive to him.

“…So, I’m the first?” Saihara giggled after his seemingly innocent question. This made Momota lift his head from his hand, furrowing his brows at the tinkling noise, skeptical as to what the point of that type of inquiry was in the first place.

“Yeah, technically.” He crossed his arms over his chest and spoke the truth. “I did tell you that you were special, didn’t I?”

Saihara’s body made a shiver at that, one visible now to Momota observing him, and he kept shaking in intervals as his body wiggled weirdly. He was rubbing his feet together, and pulling on his handcuffs, but it was clearly not in an attempt to escape. It seemed to be more as if he was trying to enjoy the sensation of them.

“So, you’ll remember me?” There was an actual smile on his face, the crusted blood on his lips cracking as they pulled against his dry skin.

This was getting peculiarly intimate. People asked for all sorts of requests from Momota before he killed them, to make sure they died respectfully, to make sure their ashes were dumped somewhere they liked, typical stuff. But this was different, most people didn’t want to be remembered, they simply wanted to fade away and be forgotten for eternity. That was the point of suicide in the first place.

This whole situation was different though, so it made sense Saihara would desire something so pathetic. Anything to humanize him, or plead for his life to be saved, but it actually made Momota realize that through the entire time, not once had he asked to not be killed.

“I will…” he offered with a distance in his voice, not willing to let himself fall into any ploy the other was scheming. Saihara merely nodded enthusiastically, no hidden motive in his movements, leaving the other perplexed more than anything.

“Oh.. and um…”

“What?” Momota was getting irked. He wanted something else? One request was fine, but he wasn’t a charity, and it was never his intention to make Saihara comfortable in his death. The exact opposite, truthfully.

“Kaito-kun…” His once uneven movements were taking on a more frenzied pace, his thighs rubbing up against each other quickly. Momota watched them with a confused glare, until he came to the realization, seeing his lap and the obvious bump there.

_‘What. The. Fuck.’_

“Can we do it…?” Saihara’s breaths were coming out in heavy puffs, the handcuffs cutting rings into his wrists that made his body convulse. “There’s a lot I never got to do, and I bet it’s the same for you…

So, you can do whatever you want to me, since I’m going to die anyway.”

Momota’s heart moved from being rapidly pulsating in his chest, straight to his throat, seeming to choke out his air for a solid minute. This wasn’t just intimate, this was something else, this was someone getting turned on from being tied up and murdered. He didn’t want to be _remembered_ , he wanted to be destroyed. Figures he would somehow come upon the freakiest one of the whole bunch of them.

“D’you think this is some sort of joke?” Momota’s voice unfortunately cracked against his will, making him sound confused as opposed to imposing. “Why would I even do that?”

Saihara shook his head vehemently, the delicate fabric of the blindfold scratching past his eyelids in a rough way. It wasn’t a joke, not in the slightest.

“Because, you said you never got to kill someone that didn’t want to die, you said I was the first person you did this too. I’m the same way too, you know…” Momota found it hard to believe they were anything alike, but he let him elaborate, holding his noises in. “I like to do things to people that no one ever wants to do. It’s the blood, right? It’s the blood that turns you on.”

All emotion drained from his face as he listened, swallowing roughly, but silently, as Saihara prattled on, clearly exciting himself as he spoke. His legs were moving again, and a deep blush was stretching from underneath his blindfold to his pale cheeks, blanketing them in a deep pink that accentuated the black fabric perfectly.

“The bruises are good too, but the blood is the best part. There’s so much of it in the human body, it takes hours for someone to exsanguinate, but if you cut a simple artery it would take a few minutes. And it’s painful too, I bet no one ever asked you to cut them.”

“Where are you going with this?” Momota kept his voice low and mellow, the complete opposite of the raging something inside, locking it inside of himself all over again. “Do you think this will help you escape? By being a freak?”

“No, no, I already know I’m going to die miserably.” Saihara shook his head, unable to stop the small line of drool that slipped from his mouth toward the ground, prevented from wiping it away by his restraints. “I’m saying I like doing those things too, but I also like when they’re done to me. If I’m going to die, I want to have fun.”

Having said his peace, Saihara rubbed his face against the hardwood, managing to swipe some of the drool away as it itched his skin. Not being able to see Momota was grating on him now, but he simply sat in silence, praying his words had reached him. Because he truly didn’t mind dying, as long as it was fun.

“…I’m not taking the handcuffs off.” Momota said after an extended silence, and Saihara perked up, lifting his head from the ground.

“No! I don’t want you to,” moving his hands around in them as he spoke, their metallic clatter infected his mind and sent it reeling. “I like them.”

Again, Momota was faced with a choice here. Fuck the almost terrifyingly bizarre boy, or focus on his own pleasure, the thing he had finally decided to do for the first time in his life. But his own hardness was almost painful now, it had been growing from the moment they stepped through the door and he lifted Saihara against him, his back pressed up against it roughly. He knew he would be turned on the entire time, but once it was over, there would be nothing to release him. He wasn’t some degenerate, he had no interest in a dead body once it was a corpse, but he also had no interest in texting some mundane partner to have bland sex with, and he certainly didn’t want to have a mediocre masturbation session afterward that would never live up to what he felt during the kill.

Saihara was right, there was so much he never got to do, an infinite amount almost. Light sadomasochism was one thing, anyone could consent to being blindfolded or choked for a few measly seconds, but what he really wanted to do, he could never.

Maybe they were more alike than he originally thought.

Standing up slowly, almost as if he was moving through a thick air of molasses, he approached Saihara after grabbing a few things from his drawers, seeing the other quiver with each step he took. Kneeling down, he lifted the blindfold from his eyes, and saw his pupils dilate wildly to the new sensation of light.

Momota looked more handsome then than he had originally, everything bright and shiny in Saihara’s twirling vision. He was leaning over him, and Saihara couldn’t help but let out a gurgling giggle, knowing by the expression on his angular face that he had succeeded in securing the death of his dreams.

The strong boy lifted him up off the ground by his handcuffs, and Saihara dangled over the spot on the light wood he had been occupying for at least a few hours, looking down at it carefully. There was an outline around his head from the blood and drool, falling into the cracks and making him wonder how it would ever be cleaned. It felt like his arms were going to pop out of their sockets behind him, but he didn’t utter a sound, instead letting himself be dragged away wordlessly, and into whatever fate Momota had decided for him.

Seeing the legs of the desk enter his vision, Saihara went tumbling to the floor, this time not face planting but landing on his knees as he felt them crack. His legs spread in the new position, while his ankles remained tied underneath them, kneeling in front of the chair that groaned as a weight settled in it.

Lifting his head, he looked up at Momota as he sat in front of him, his hands placed on his legs and his eyes austere. When they merely stared at each other for breathless seconds, he moved to begin unzipping his pants, Saihara’s gaze flashing down quickly to his lap as it vibrated over the large protrusion there.

As his boxers were pulled to the side, Saihara bit his lip, almost flinching when his erection was revealed. It was true that the high schooler hadn’t seen a massive number of erect penises in person during his life, but this was easily the biggest; much larger, and wider than his own. It had been what he expected, but still being confronted with it, directly in your face, was nerve-wracking.

Swallowing to clear the lump in his throat, but not succeeding, Saihara could only stare at it, his mind a swirling mess. He opened his mouth slightly, as if he knew what to do, but his jaw froze at the concept of fitting that in his mouth, unsure where it would even go.

“Wait,” Momota ordered, and Saihara paused, eyes flashing up as his mouth remained hung open in uncertainty. Reaching next to him, he pulled out two terrifyingly long hooks, with rubber caps at the end, curving and extending farther than a normal one would. They were nose hooks, Saihara had seen them before.

He remained still in acceptance as he hooked them over his head, and slid them into his bruised nose, flinching in blistering pain as they not only aggravated the injury, but naturally sat against the most sensitive area, what they were intended to do. They pulled back on his nostrils, and must have made him look ridiculous, like some sort of stuck pig or drugged mess. Once they were settled, he tried to breathe, and found he could, until the wind was knocked out of them when Momota tugged on the strap over his head hard enough to make him scream.

“Just in case you get any ideas of running away,” he clarified, and he leaned in close, observing Saihara intently as tears welled up in his eyes. Momota felt his own erection twitch at the pathetic sight, and he leaned back, keeping his hand on top of Saihara’s head and guiding his face toward his lap.

He looked fucking hilarious, like such a joke, his face scrunched up to the point of not even appearing to be human. Momota loved it, and he tugged on the leather strap once again just for the fun of it.

“Ow!” Saihara cried, a tear sliding from his eye, along with a drop of blood from his nose, his whole-body trembling. It wasn’t the dull pain of the restraints anymore, but a sharp, intense agony that ripped at every portion of himself that was still a person, begging him to escape lest he lose all of the muscles in his nose.

But he didn’t reject it, and instead let Momota move his head toward his dick, almost at the edge of his lips now. He didn’t need to be told twice what to do, so he opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out, pressing it flat against the base and feeling it pulse.

Licking upward, he closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the scent and salty taste, overflowing with an almost poisonous masculinity. His skin wasn’t soft and pink like Ouma’s was, but utterly different, dragging against his tongue with an unfamiliar sensation. When he reached the tip, Saihara opened his eyes, looking down at the entire thing he was supposedly expected to fit in his mouth.

Licking his lips, seeing the way Momota’s thighs twitched beneath his black pants as his tongue flicked past the tip, he let a pool of drool build inside his mouth. Once it was as much as he could contain, he opened his mouth and let it dribble out over his tongue, coating the entire thing and sliding down the sides already partially wet.

He heard Momota inhale sharply at that, and he let himself laugh a bit, but not enough that it tugged at the painful contraptions on his face. Pressing his tongue back up against it, he swirled his tongue around the wetness, tasting the precum that amalgamated and spread over his taste buds. When he felt Momota’s hand press on the back of his head, he relented, letting himself be maneuvered downward as his mouth took the tip in, beginning to stretch his lips out.

He made a choked noise as Momota’s hips lifted sharply, shoving as much of the thing in Saihara’s mouth as he could, all while forcing his head down. A full onslaught of tears began to spill from his eyes, making him sniffle to keep other liquids inside of himself, his body retching and denying the unfamiliar object. His throat closed, and his mouth quivered, trying to breathe as he heard the other groan above him.

Glancing up, through the blurriness of his vision, he saw Momota’s lips parted, his eyes briefly rolled back in ecstasy, all while he was in pain. Through this pain, though, he felt his lower-half on fire, quivering excitedly as he saw the other’s eyes flicker down to him with blown pupils and a heavy look in them.

Tentatively, Saihara began bobbing his head, forcing his body to accept the weight in his mouth. Drool kept falling out of his mouth uncontrollably, and his tongue was revolting, bunching up in the back of his throat as if it could actually stop him. He never removed his eyes from Momota’s face the entire time, not until he was physically forced to, being shoved further down than he could handle to the point where his face spasmed and his eyelids shut reflexively.

“Mmf-! Sht-“ Saihara pulled frantically against the handcuffs, cutting fresher and deeper into the skin in his fruitless attempts to free his hands so he could push himself off of the dick gagging him. Momota had both of his hands on the back of his head now, wrenching him in place and holding him there as he began to fuck his hips into his mouth, causing an unexplainable feeling to rise in Saihara’s tortured throat.

“You said I could do whatever I wanted, so I’m doing it,” Momota said between his heavy breaths, swearing silently as the dangerous wetness he bucked into sucked him greedily.

“Mmh, Kaito-kyun, shtop it, r-r, mmf!” Saihara opened his eyes as his body became paralyzed, looking up as tears fell freely over his cheeks. Momota was looking at him, but not _at_ him, more at his mouth that was taking as much in as humanly possible of his cock. He didn’t like that.

He managed to extend his tongue through the rough movements, and swirl it underneath, causing the other to move his gaze from his mouth to his full face in surprise. Seeing the disgusting state of his nose, and the blood leftover around his mouth, Momota felt his body spasm, unintentionally letting out a low moan, extending in the stifling air.

“Ish it good?” The pain hadn’t stopped, but Saihara had grown accustomed to it, or more correctly come to like it. The flat pain in his jaw was infectious, and the more the back of his throat was slammed against, the more he began to shudder as he was devastated.

 _‘Cum, I wanna cum, I want him to cum down my throat. This might really kill me, but I want him to mess me up. Ah, I really wanna cum…’_ Saihara lamented his once beloved handcuffs now, desperately wishing he could palm himself as the pulsing between his legs was becoming unbearable. As Momota’s hips began to hit at an uneven pace, his grunts turning into louder vocalizations that swam into Saihara’s rotten body, he began to hyperventilate around the pungent metal in his nose.

“Cumming-“ Momota announced plainly, focusing on the way Saihara began to smile, nodding fervently but not enough to cause his teeth to knock against his sensitive area.

“Nn-“ Saihara closed one of his eyes as almost all of Momota was forced into him, stilling in his mouth and throbbing endlessly. His cum shot into the back of his throat and began to drip down the abused walls, causing the other to cough slightly from being unprepared to swallow in this state. He had to simply sit and let it fall, feeling the way Momota’s thighs twitched against his face while he got lost in his pleasure.

When it all seemed to have emptied itself, Saihara pulled back, being permitted to remove his mouth and cough fully. But his jaw refused to close, it hung open as he tilted his head and wretched violently, his muscles sore and lax. It was also agonizing to cough with the hooks in his nostrils, and each time he tried to clear his airway a new pain ripped at him.

But he was still so happy, lifting his head when he finally managed to get both his jaw and his throat under control. Momota was panting above him, sweat collecting around his collar and dripping down the deep neckline of his shirt, his flushed skin almost making him seem vulnerable in this state. Though he knew this wasn’t the case.

Grinning, his nose still distorted, and his entire upper body coated in spit, Saihara asked with a broken voice, “What are we going to do next?”

 

* * *

 

 

_‘Stupid Ouma, stupid Ouma, stupid Ouma, stupid Ouma!’_

That mantra repeated in his mind with each rapid step he took, running despite the blazing pain in his chest, like there was a hot poker branding his lungs. Ouma whizzed past pedestrians, past buildings and plants, panting so hard he sounded like he would drop dead at any moment, only receiving concerned stares from those that he avoided. If it had been the morning, they could have assumed he had overslept his alarm and was late for school, but as the sun set he only look deranged and covered in a thick layer of sweat.

The one day, the one day he wasn’t able to see Saihara go home, the one day he didn’t make sure he got into his house safe and this was what happened. The one day he decided to spend his time sobbing on the floor about his own mistakes, instead of doing his assigned work, until he was late and barely able to finish on time, that was the day this happened. He had spent so much time sprinting around the school looking for Saihara afterward, even sacrificing and harming Saihara’s reputation by asking if others had seen him, he had spent all that time being useless when he was in danger.

Maybe if he had just gone straight to his house, maybe if he had caught sight of him on the train, or done anything other than be a worthless, tainted, sad excuse of a human being, maybe then he could have kept him safe like he was supposed to. It was the one thing Ouma wanted to do well at in life, more than anything, and he had already failed.

The what-if’s plagued his mind, tears still choking in his throat as he looked down at his phone, following the map to the home displayed as fast as he humanly could. Assured he was on the right path, he closed it briefly to open up his browser, Saihara’s blog still open and not changing, even as he refreshed it.

_“I want to die.”_

Ouma covered his mouth with his hand to contain the sob that attempted to escape him, making it impossible to breathe as he gulped between his fingers. It was his fault, it was all his fault, and if Saihara died because of him, then… then…

Ouma would turn himself into the police as the one that did it. Because it was all his fault.

He was infamous for his tears, both to his family, and to those that beat him until he had no choice other than to cry. But he didn’t believe he had ever cried this hard in his entire life, and for such an extended period of time. They began when Saihara wouldn’t respond to him, and he took a chance of opening his blog, greeted by that first post that never changed.

They reached a zenith as he stood outside of Saihara’s house, banging on the gate door like a madman, surprised he wasn’t ejected from the neighborhood, and he had received that image. Saihara on the ground, covered in blood, blindfolded, gagged, tied up, utterly broken. His legs had failed underneath him, and he collapsed to the ground, his whole body jarring against the cement of the sidewalk, a waterfall erupting from his eyes as he stared at that picture without the ability to close his gaping mouth. Ouma wasn’t proud to say that he began wailing.

They continued on the train into Tokyo, and he wished he could say they were quiet, solitary tears. Tears that signified he was heading toward something he needed to be strong for. But they weren’t, they were loud and ugly, never fully ceasing but restarting each time he opened his phone and refreshed that unchanging website. At one point, a small child approached him and handed him a miniature candy in a pink wrapper, giving him a thumb up of encouragement, as if he had just failed a test or been broken up with. As if he wasn’t about to walk into a murder scene.

Ouma still ate the hard candy though, and consumed it in one swift crunch, almost shattering his teeth as the strawberry did nothing to sweeten his rancid self. The taste was still on his tongue now as he ran, and when the blue arrow showed him getting nearer and nearer to his destination, he thought he might vomit it back up.

There were houses, a long street of them, not to dissimilar from his own neighborhood, stretching through the darkening city. He took that road and watched the house numbers grow larger until they flanked the one he was looking for, coming to a skidding halt so instantaneously he almost lost his balance.

It was a shitty house, but he had no opinion other than that. The boy wasted no time in approaching the unguarded door, glancing down at his phone one more time. He had texted Saihara, or more correctly that person, multiple times on the way here, giving updates of his estimated arrival and where he was. Yet they never responded once, not even reading the messages, only fueling Ouma’s tears. He just hoped they didn’t get bored waiting for him.

Deciding to just announce his presence, knowing whatever waited for him, it was undefeatable to someone like him, he knocked on the door rapidly, banging as strongly as his fists would let him.

“H-Hello? It’s Ouma Kokichi! Is anyone home?” Ouma screeched, bothering a cat that lounged nearby enough that it got up and left. He was shaking the door he was hitting it so hard, and he thought it might break down before he ever received an answer.

The answer came in the form of a message, setting his phone off and making him jump out of his skin. Scrambling for it, he sent the smartphone tumbling to the ground, the already shattered screen cracking across a new portion. But he didn’t care, he only swiped across the ruined product and read carefully,

_it’s open_

His eyes dragged over to the door handle cautiously, as if it would bite his hand off if he ever touched it, and he gulped. Approaching it, clutching the phone to his chest, he reached out, almost flinching when the cold metal grazed his hand. Opening it deliberately, he found it was indeed unlocked, and it opened into a murky hallway with one singular light on at the end.

Normally, Ouma would have announced his intrusion, apologized for entering all alone, but he had a feeling this person wasn’t the type to care. Closing the squeaky door behind him, it settled in the frame inaccurately, already unsettling his fried nerves, his whole being buzzing with in inexplicable emotion. At least the tears had stopped.

“H… Hello?” Ouma called, the floorboards creaking as he took a step forward, almost sending him reeling back. But the pure desire to find Saihara, to at least confirm he was alive, gave him the only bit of strength he could find in himself. Even in times like this, where he had failed him, Saihara still managed to give Ouma the best parts of himself.

“Down here,” a voice called from the room, a man’s voice, and that caused the boy to freeze. “Make sure you lock the door.”

“O-Oh,” Ouma looked back at the door and rushed to it, turning the handle to keep it locked in place, effectively sealing himself in this house of horrors. Whatever was waiting for him, whatever demon that had stolen Saihara, it had its fingers around his throat now.

“I’m… I’m coming in…” He announced when he began moving again, one hand pressed up against the cold wall to steady himself and use it as a guide. There were pockmarks and cracks in the unidentifiable material, and they coursed past Ouma’s palm as he approached the lone illumination, swallowing thickly again.

“Is… Is this… Is Saihara-kun…?” Ouma wasn’t sure what exactly he was saying, or why he was even trying to speak in the first place, but it felt like if he approached silently he might be seen as a threat. Even if he wanted to be, he never would.

His hand wrapped around the edge of the door frame, and he held his breath, waiting for his fingers to be sliced clean from his hand. When no cleaver fell, he steadied his trembling body as much as he could and turned the corner, the light blinding his eyes momentarily.

When he was able to register his full surroundings, he found an unremarkable room, full of what he assumed to be workout equipment… Hopefully? When his eyes crawled up to the ceiling, however, he caught sight of something dangling from the pull-up bars there, like a piece of livestock.

“Saihara-kun!” Ouma sprinted forward, tripping over his feet and moving clumsily. Saihara was strung by his hands and feet from the bars, in a way he was absolutely certain wasn’t comfortable, and his eyes were blindfolded. His head turned toward the sound of Ouma’s voice, and he tried to speak, but he was gagged, a ball sitting in his mouth and strapped around his head.

“S-Saihara-kun, are you okay? Can you hear me? Saihara-kun!” Ouma came to stand under him, and the tears began falling again, both for his pitiful state and his sheer relief. He was alive, he was alive, he was still alive…!

“He’s fine,” a voice behind him made Ouma jump, and the door slammed shut with an emphatic boom, seeming to shake the entire walls of the room. He turned swiftly, and saw another student standing there, his large hand spread over the door with a harsh look on his face.

“Who are yo-… No, he’s not okay! You have to take him down right now!” Ouma should have cared more, but he didn’t, his thoughts were only focused on one thing, like they usually were. He turned back up to Saihara and reached for him, his short fingers not even reaching high enough to graze past his lowest point on his stomach. He began to balance on his tip toes, then jump like a literal toddler, desperately trying to touch him despite the futility, tears biting in his eyes.

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Two arms scooped Ouma up from his knees, and lifted him into the air quickly, shocking him back into his body and situation.

“W-What are you doing? Put me down! Don’t-“ Ouma brought a hand down on one of the arms cradling him, but the man was not perturbed, just guiding his lithe frame toward the body hanging from the ceiling. Ouma was panting, fully focused on freeing himself, until Saihara was near his face, still blindfolded but looking in his direction.

“Oh my god- Saihara-kun,” his attention turned back to what really mattered, and he let himself be held despite the disgusting feeling, ignoring the pressure in his legs. Reaching out, he first pulled the gag from his mouth, then removed the blindfold, seeing the tears and snot that had dried on his favorite face.

“…Ouma-kun?”

“S-Saih-“ Ouma couldn’t finish his sentence of nothing before he started sobbing, his words cutting off in a crumbled cry until he could only speak two words. “You’re okay!”

Saihara’s eyes were scanning his entire face, as if he couldn’t believe what he was truly seeing, like it was some sort of trick. His arms pulled against the cuffs holding them, but not in an attempt to free himself, just a knee-jerk reaction to wanting to touch what he couldn’t comprehend.

“But I thought you were- You didn’t want to see me…”

Ouma, unable to handle the way Saihara was looking at him, covered his face with his hands and began to wrack with cries, causing Momota below him to both roll his eyes, and spread his legs to keep his balance as he shook. The way Saihara was looking at him, he had never wanted to see it ever again, but now it was happening once more regardless of how hard he bawled. Because it was his fault.

“I’m so sorry! I-I’m sorry!” His words were muffled into his skin, but semi-comprehensible, the feeling behind them translating through. “I never meant I didn’t want to hang out with you again, a-and I promise I’ll explain, so please don’t die!”

Ouma repeated the word ‘please’ into his hands until they were soaked in his own tears, a few dribbling to the floor and staining Momota’s shoes, really pissing him off. He remained silent however, eager to see what Saihara would say, after everything they had just done.

“…I don’t think I can,” Ouma lifted his head in disbelief at the resigned words, watching Saihara’s unreadable expression. “Kaito-kun is going to kill me.”

“’Kaito-kun’…?” The sniffling boy brought his eyebrows together, before realization hit, immediately looking down at the carnivore holding him, who was grinning at him savagely.

Something inside of Ouma was splintering when he saw that face, a surge of emotions he had never felt before at another human being. He wasn’t a violent person by any means, in fact just the opposite, but he wanted to stomp on his face so brutally at the singular moment.

He did the closest he could, swinging his heel back and connecting with his chest with all the force his twig size limbs could muster. It was enough to send him back a few steps, and Ouma tipped forward, crashing to the ground on his hands as he was dropped. He let out a small noise of pain, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle, and he collected himself to stand and square himself with the man clutching at his chest with his back against the wall.

“Y-You’re not gonna die, Saihara-kun! Because I’m here now, so don’t worry.” He looked quite literally like a baby bunny trying to protect his stash of treats, his face stained with tears still and the skin under his eyes puffy from crying. When Momota finished massaging at the dull ache in his naked chest, he raised his eyebrows at the sight, fully convinced now he never would have been in any danger from this runt from the start.

Not that it mattered now.

“Kid’s right,” Momota pushed himself up from the wall, and walked closer to Saihara, so he wouldn’t have to strain his head so hard to see him. “I’m not going to kill you.”

“…What?”

Ouma didn’t understand the conflicted tones in Saihara’s voice, as if the life-saving information was so complex to parse. He swayed from the ceiling, not like a human, but like something in between, something Ouma thought he had understood but never did.

“I like you, Shuichi.”

“What?” It was Ouma that echoed that conflicted voice now, glancing over at Momota with a face pulled tight over his normally soft features.

_‘Shuichi…? He can’t possibly mean-‘_

“Sorry, I guess I found out I’m the type of person that can’t kill someone that I like.” He slipped something from his pocket as he walked straight past Ouma as if he never saw him, and toward Saihara, the tiny silver key in his fingers seeming to attract everyone’s quivering gazes. “I told you that you were the first person I did this with, so you can’t be too mad at me for not knowing. And you didn’t even want to die in the first place.”

While that was true, it was just… it was more complicated than that. Saihara had prepared himself to die, he had spent those extended portions of time facedown coming to that end, to learn to accept that this was his final time. And, there was a portion of himself that understood that he would always want to die. His life wasn’t going anywhere, it was going to end the same way one day, whether it was now or later. Putting it off almost felt perverse, if he could just get it over with, and have fun in the meantime, then wasn’t that best for everyone?

“I don’t understand.” Saihara shook his head as Momota approached him, his arms extending upward to disconnect him from the ceiling, identically the way he had strung him up. But Saihara wasn’t laughing now like he had then, just oscillating back and forth silently as the cuffs clicked around his hands.

Being unlocked from the ceiling should have sent him faceplanting to the unforgiving floor, first his feet, then his hands, but instead he was cradled in Momota’s arms the entire time, sturdy and warm. His whole body convulsed violently as it returned to the position that was physiologically natural, his sockets no longer in danger of dislocating, and the blood sending shrill tingles through his dead limbs as they rushed with vigor. Momota lowered him into his chest, before bundling him up and holding him close, his sore joints cracking pathetically at the shifting positions.

He didn’t understand? Ouma was the one that didn’t understand. He ‘liked’ him? It was his ‘first time’? What did it all mean? He had come all the way here, he had almost just killed himself thinking he had caused Saihara to hurt himself, but nothing was conceivable, or fathomable, or sensical. It was like he was watching a show from the fourth episode, one he had never been a part of.

“He wanted to die, so he came to me,” watching Ouma cradle his head so tightly he was afraid the kid would squeeze it hard enough it would explode across his floor, Momota explained, before letting out a small chuckle. “…In more ways than one. Oh, I’m Momota Kaito, by the way.”

“He came to you…? So, you were going to take advantage of someone who was upset, and just kill them?” The boy tried to comprehend, completely ignoring the half-assed introduction, but when the other just shrugged, he felt that familiar, seething feeling in his stomach. “You took advantage of someone that was in pain!”

“It’s kind of what I do, I guess.”

“It’s okay, Ouma-kun,” Saihara’s words were muffled as his face was pressed into Momota’s neck, the sweaty smell infiltrating his still inflamed nose. “Didn’t I do the same to you?”

“Wh-What are you talking about, Saihara-kun?” His voice did a complete flip, turning meek, and sweet as he addressed the broken-looking boy, trying to ignore where exactly he was at the moment.

“You came to me when you were sick, and you said you loved me. And I took advantage of you then, even though I didn’t like you back.” It was like a physical stab through his heart, almost losing his balance as he heard the words. Saihara really thought that?

“That’s wrong! I know you would never, ever hurt me, Saihara-kun!” Ouma clutched at his heart through his jacket, trying to keep it inside of his body as it melted away, burnt to shreds at the concept the other felt some sort of guilt over the things they did together. Didn’t he know Ouma liked it too? “I wanted to do those things too, you know. B-Because, I trust you, and I just want to… I just wanted to…”

“It’s the same thing here, right?” That unwanted voice, that unnecessary cadence rang out, and Ouma pulled his lower lip back into his mouth and faced him coldly. “He wanted to die, so I was going to do it. All those other things too.”

 _‘Other things?’_ Ouma pulled his thin eyebrows together and focused on the way Saihara’s shoulders raised up, like he was hiding himself.

“Sorry, forget what I said. I just have to accept I’m not going to die, I guess.” Unlatching himself from Momota’s body, he looked over at Ouma, the open front of his white shirt revealing a layer of bruises and bite marks the other hadn’t noticed in his hysteria before. “It kind of sucks, though. It was really fun to pretend I was going to die, I felt like I could do anything for a little bit.

“But, you know Ouma-kun, I was thinking about you the whole time.”

Ouma inhaled deeply, the pain he had felt in his heart turning almost candied, the strawberry of that sweet earlier finally bursting across his tongue in the pleasant way it should have. That’s right, Saihara was okay, and whatever that _person_ did to him, it wasn’t going to change him forever. They were still going to be together, they were still going to-

“Now that you’re here too, we can keep going!” Looking back up at Momota, Saihara was smiling again, but it didn’t seem fully happy. It seemed more deranged. “I never got to earlier, even though Kaito-kun did a few times. Don’t you think that’s just a little too harsh?”

Momota seemed to be the only one to understand what he was saying, and he glanced down at the wavering tent in Saihara’s pants, raising an eyebrow, “Oh, I guess you’re right. Sorry, didn’t notice.”

“Mm-mm, it’s okay. Because Ouma-kun is here now…!” Shaking his head, Saihara kept grinning as he looked over at the petrified boy. “Hey, Ouma-kun, wanna have sex with me and Kaito-kun?”

“H-Huh, ah, um, wait, what?!” Ouma took a step back, and the smile that had made its way onto his face from Saihara’s words earlier was replaced by shock and disbelief. Saihara seemed to want to follow him, wriggling in Momota’s arms and stretching his thin legs toward the ground. Setting him down carefully, attentive to if his legs would give out after their previous position, he let go once he saw he was entirely capable of standing on his own.

So that’s what Saihara meant when he said he was thinking about Ouma the whole time? He couldn’t believe it, he didn’t want to, if he even acknowledged it as something that happened he felt like his entire world would unravel. He felt like his entire life was crumbling in on itself right now, worse with each sentence that was said, and it was all his fault. If he had never run away from Saihara, things would be how they always were, just the two of them, just the two of them, just the **two** of them.

“He took advantage of you in that way too?” That had to be it, there’s no way it was anything else. But as he was encroached upon closer and closer by the lovingly smiling Saihara, he knew it was a lie.

“Hey, it wasn’t me, he’s the one that brought it up,” Momota asserted, putting his free hands in his pocket, the key to his handcuffs now safe from any other person once again. Ouma shook his head, refusing to buy it, but when Saihara put his hands on his shoulders, he couldn’t help but look into his eyes and face the facts.

“There’s a lot of fun things we can do with three people instead of just two, don’t you think? And besides,” Saihara closed the space between them and wrapped his arms around Ouma’s waist, easily encircling it with his grip. “When I thought about how I might never get to see the faces you make again, that was the only time I felt sad during everything.”

Ouma looked up at Saihara’s face, so close and familiar, and felt his face heat up at the admission he made. Their chests were touching, and he could feel his heartbeat opposite his own, flush against him. He was alive.

“B-But still, Saihara-kun… I don’t think it’s a good idea. If you’re upset then…” Ouma turned his head away in bashfulness, unable to maintain the eye contact for any longer. Saihara tilted his head, boring down at him unrelentingly, aware his erection was pressing up against the other’s stomach with an aching pleasure.

“…You’re so cute, Ouma-kun.” Saihara grabbed onto his chin harshly and forced it back to facing him, taking his lips promptly in his and quieting the small vocalization he was making as a reaction. He wasted no time in opening his mouth, pushing his tongue into Ouma’s and tasting the full spread of his favorite place. It had the flavor it always did, but a bit sweeter now. Saihara supposed all things were more beautiful after you were close to death.

Ouma absently wondered why Saihara tasted like cigarette smoke, he knew he would never do something that stupid… But the thoughts drifted away as he kept kissing him and the rest of his familiar scent washed over him, causing him to curl his fingers into the front of his unbuttoned shirt. He was so emotional, he felt he could start crying at any time, not believing he had Saihara back under his hands after such a close brush with losing him. Even after everything he had done, Saihara still wanted to kiss him, and it was enough to make him sniffle weakly into the movements.

He wouldn’t stop kissing him, his tongue moving like it was claiming, or reclaiming, something he had thought he had forfeited. Ouma couldn’t complain, and his muted moans were high and syrupy against Saihara’s lips.

He even let out a displeased noise when Saihara pulled back, despite himself, and blinked his eyes open to see the other licking his lips above him.

“Kaito-kun, can you help me out?”

Ouma blinked again when it registered it wasn’t his name Saihara had said, but the other person’s in the room. Someone Ouma had completely forgot existed in the midst of his kiss, lost in the feeling he longed for, so he barely had time to react when he felt himself lift off of the ground.

“Wh-What?” He squeaked, two arms wrapping underneath his and stretching his body out, leaving him dangling in the air by the secure hold of Momota behind him, the origin of the cigarette smell apparent now. He kicked wildly, but it was useless, even more useless than it had been than when Saihara had done it.

“That’s great! Just like you did to me!” Saihara was laughing excitedly, looking at the scene of Ouma completely restrained and struggling for his release fruitlessly. His violet eyes were wide and frightened, his tiny body squirming about without even budging the other holding him, doing nothing but exciting the sadistic pair.

“Relax, Ouma-kun…” Saihara approached him and put his hands on his chest, feeling the way his heart fluttered rapidly in his chest, almost like it was going to burst out from his thin skin. Slipping one of his buttons open, he moved to touch the skin directly, causing the other to stutter and gasp, goosebumps forming against his fingers.

Leaning in, Saihara sniffed Ouma’s neck, smelling the sweat that had built around the roots of his hair. He must have run so hard to get here in time, it was apparent in just this fact, and it made him smile against the sensitive area.

He pressed a soft kiss onto his jugular, and Ouma whined, his body jumping at the ticklish touch. He had stopped moving, like Saihara had told him too, but he couldn’t help the twitching he made when the kisses kept pressing down his neck, and into his collar bone, more buttons coming undone as his jacket was pushed to the side.

“A-Ah, Saihara-kun, wait-“ Ouma panted heavily when the kisses turned to bites, first nibbles, then deep bruising, his blood running hot under his tortured neck. When the unbuttoning reached the white shirt beneath his school jacket, he sunk his teeth into his bottom lip to keep from making an overly loud noise in response, Saihara’s thin hands spreading out over his still slightly-damp clothing.

Saihara ran his tongue up the entire length of Ouma’s neck, and to his jaw, as he opened his shirt, exposing the pure skin there. It was only when his fingers touched the pronounced positioning of his ribs, did he realize that he had never even seen Ouma fully naked, despite everything they had done.

Pulling back, Saihara looked at his bare chest, rising and falling quickly as he tried to calm himself after the plethora of kisses. The skin of his neck was thoroughly bruised, but Saihara leaned in and placed one on his chest for good measure, making the other moan hushed behind his sealed lips.

Momota looked down over Ouma’s shoulder as Saihara slid to his knees, a position he had seen him in enough already, but still seemed to get enjoyment out of. His hips pressed forward and sat against the boy he was holding’s backside, but the other didn’t notice, too focused on observing Saihara’s confusing movements intensely. It was then he paid attention to Ouma, more specifically the way his ribs protruded from his body, enough that even he wanted to break them, and the way his rough jacket brushed up against his bare chest each time he quivered.

“What are you doing…?” Ouma asked once his breathing was under control, and Saihara began removing his shoes, flinging them to the side carelessly. His socks followed, one after the other, before his hands landed on the waistband of his pants, looking up at Ouma with a sly smile.

Ouma’s eyes widened in understanding, and he watched silently as his button was undone, the already baggy nature of his pants enough to send them drooping off his waist and down to his ankles. They bunched up around them, but didn’t slide all the way to the floor, sitting on front of where Saihara was kneeling as he watched them fall proudly.

He was almost fully exposed then, aside from his form fitting underwear, and the unbuttoned jacket on his shoulders. His thighs reacted poorly to the air, despite its warmth, prickling immediately with small hairs and bumps, shivering as they remained spread from each other.

“Cute… You really are cute, Ouma-kun…” Saihara ran his hands up his thin legs, thawing them with his heat and his words. Ouma watched as he tried to control his breathing, and his exaggerated reactions, the muscles in his inner thighs pulsing each time the balmy fingers crept higher and higher. When they reached the skin just below his boxer-briefs, he let out a small yelp, his back arching unintentionally against Momota’s chest.

“Mmh-!” He closed his eyes, too embarrassed to continue looking at Saihara when he was so intimately close with that area of him. He kept them clamped shut until he felt something smack against his erection, flashing them open to look down at where it came from.

Saihara was pulling on the fabric of his underwear, letting it go again to slap him in a playful manner, actually, more in a pleasurable one. He did it once again, and Ouma let out a cry, his legs pulling together as the skin around his groin stung.

“Don’t close your eyes, look at me,” Saihara commanded, and Ouma shook his head reflexively, receiving another slap in return.

“I-I will! I just- Ah, Saihara-kun-“ Ouma involuntarily lifted his hips closer to his face, his cheeks burning brightly. Saihara laughed, his fingers settling on the defined curves of his hips bones, his thumbs inching toward the waistband of his underwear.

“Your body is so honest, Ouma-kun. Even when your mouth isn’t.” He pulled the underwear down swiftly without a warning, and as if his point was proven, Ouma’s erection sprung into the air. He let out a long wheeze ending in a whine as the sensation hit his exposed skin, acutely aware of two different sets of eyes observing such a shameful area of his body.

Pressing a finger underneath the semi-hardness, Saihara traced down it, watching how it seemed to jump in response to his teasing. Ouma had to be the easiest person in the world to please, whether Saihara was mean, or kind, or bloody, or mushy, his body seemed to enjoy it all. Overjoyed at the thought, he brought his lips forward, taking half of Ouma’s dick in between them at once, feeling the other spasm.

“Wait, stop, Saihara-kun, you’ll…” Ouma couldn’t continue his pleas, his whole body shaking violently as the warmth took more in and his mind went blank. He tossed his head back, and it slammed against Momota’s shoulder, his hair spreading in the other’s face and blocking his view of Saihara on his knees, much to his dismay.

It was clear again soon, when he couldn’t keep still, his head lifting and his waist twisting around, with no place to go and no way to respond to the pleasure. Saihara moved his head testingly, exploring the difference in the feeling of Ouma’s dick in his mouth, only to hear the other moan brokenly above him.

“It’s- You can’t, it’s dirty, you shouldn’t-“ This kid had a mouth on him, even one to top Saihara’s, and Momota now understood the comment made earlier. Still, there was a charm in it, even if it wasn’t particularly for him, and Saihara seemed to enjoy it thoroughly, his movements more sure and smooth than they had been with Momota. That could have also partially been due to the lack of torture and torment.

“Saihara-kun, Saihara-kun, Saihara-kun you have to stop, you have to, please,” Ouma was losing his mind watching the way Saihara rolled his tongue over his burning skin, his thighs shaking as they hung in the air uselessly. “Something’s already going to… It feels too good!”

Saihara moaned around the hardness, the vibration making Ouma let out a cry in response, his body stinging in a painful mix of physical pleasure with mental distress. He couldn’t rectify anything that had happened, but his body wouldn’t respond to that, it would only push desperately to feel Saihara, in any way possible.

“Something’s coming out, something’s going- In your mouth,” he hadn’t thought this plea would be the one that stopped Saihara, it hadn’t before, but he pulled back with a big gasp for air, sending Ouma’s brain reeling. His neck hung down as he panted laboriously, his entire body twitching as it managed to hold his cum inside of him despite even the air seeming to tease him.

“Not yet.” Saihara wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, before licking it, looking up at the two watching him intently, drastically opposing emotions on their faces. Ouma looked busted, and Momota looked intrigued, though both of their expressions were partially obscured.

“You’ve never sucked mine, Ouma-kun.” He swiped the side of his mouth with his thumb, and the other lifted his head stutteringly, a flurry of emotions crossing his face.

“…Huh? You mean like…?” Ouma swallowed the drool that had collected in his mouth to speak more clearly, but found the words still jumbled. “I mean, I’ve never tried, I don’t know if I’d know… If I’d be any good at it.” His self-doubt warbled into his voice, but it came from only a want to please Saihara, not to keep up any sort of image.

“I’ll show you how, it’s not that hard. Besides, I’ve done it twice for you already, were you never gonna do it back?” Ouma looked shocked beyond belief at the realization he had been so selfish, and he shook his head vehemently, his slightly sore arms beginning to fumble around in Momota’s iron grip.

“N-No! I’ve always wanted too, I just don’t know how, so I was worried, I’m sorry.” Sometimes Saihara wished Ouma wasn’t so easy to bully, because it caused nearly all of his problems in his gloomy life. But a majority of the time, like now, he adored it.

“Lay down,” he pat the ground in front of him as he crawled backward, his shirt hanging open and beginning to slide down his arms. When Momota moved to set Ouma down, he was stupefied to find him more unstable than Saihara had been after swinging from the ceiling for over 30 minutes, stumbling and clutching to his arm impulsively to keep his balance. Once the small boy realized what he had done, he quickly released himself, and pattered away on his fickle legs, completely naked from the waist down and clearly still wobbly.

He followed Saihara to the center of the room, past where the blood had long since dried, thankfully not seeming to notice it. When he was standing between Saihara’s legs, holding his long sleeve in front of his waist to hide his erection, he pulled his knees together, remembering what he was told. Lowering himself to the ground, still trying to maintain his modesty, he knelt on his bony legs and kept his gaze sunken, not sure where to start, and not wanting to be too presumptuous.

Saihara began to unbutton his pants, and his fingers finally being able to run past his own erection was almost enough to send him over the edge. He had been on the brink this entire time, the vicious bruises and cuts over his wrists a testament to his submission, that even the slightest brush made him stop to inhale in response.

Ouma watched intently, the pants sliding from his body and off his legs, revealing a variety of welts of varying intensity over the skin. His soul felt increasingly putrid, and while he had tuned it out when first observing Saihara, he was now painfully aware of the presence behind them. The one that deserved to drop off the face of the Earth and leave them alone in their bubble forever.

He felt awful thinking that, and normally he would never even conceptualize having those thoughts about another human being. But he had tried to hurt Saihara, he had tried to take him away from Ouma, to cut his presence, the only thing worthy of anything, from this world short. Flashing his eyes to the side, Ouma saw two hooks, not pointed but ending in rubber capsules at the end, sitting on a desk.

They weren’t sharp, but he if dug them into his eyes, it would do enough damage. Or maybe if he managed to get the ends off, they would be sharp underneath, and he could fully erase him for good. Then they could-

“Lay down, Ouma-kun,” Saihara reminded him, and he snapped from his murderous reverie, feeling disgusted with himself. Hoping to camouflage his thoughts, and forget them himself, he followed the twirling motion Saihara made with his hand, turning around and laying down on his back. Once he did, Saihara crawled on top of him, his now naked body blanketing him fully.

Ouma couldn’t even bring himself to look directly at the cock hovering over his face, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away at the same time, his gaze shuddering back and forth repeatedly. He had never seen it so close before, and just like everything else about Saihara, it was perfect.

“Open your mouth like this,” Saihara stuck his tongue out and pressed it against the tip of Ouma’s dick, making the other shiver, but hesitantly crack his lips open with a humid breath. He saw Saihara’s dick pulse in response, and he almost screeched, so on-edge and aroused at it all.

Glancing back, Saihara guided himself down, until he felt Ouma’s plush lips press up against the head of his erection, his body tensing instantly. Keeping a semblance of calm, he pushed down more, until his lips spread, and he could feel the smooth edges of his tongue, already beginning to shake uncontrollably.

He wished he could be nice, but being in the state he was in, it was unavoidable for him to blank. His hips forced themselves down, with or without his control was up for debate, and the entirety of his dick slammed into Ouma’s mouth as he groaned highly.

But he missed what he was expecting, part of what he wanted to hear. He had wanted to hear Ouma gag, feel his body convulse under him as it rejected his dick, but would ultimately keep it inside, desperate to please him. There was no reaction other than a surprised, muffled shout, but it didn’t sound pained, just startled.

“O-Ouma-kun…” Saihara moaned despite himself, and his head looked between his quivering arms in shock, seeing without a doubt his hips pressed up fully against his face. He felt his body pulse uncontrollably at the sight, almost slipping to the ground as the muscles in Ouma’s throat squeezed him tightly, his tongue unsure what to do as it flittered around in his mouth, searching for a place to go.

“W-Wait, do you, do you not have a gag reflex?” He watched expectantly as Ouma made a conflicting answer, both shaking his head in disagreement and nodding in concurrence, muffled speech emerging from his vibrations. Reluctantly, Saihara removed himself from Ouma’s mouth, too fascinated to lament for too long, hovering over him as he planned to return as soon as possible.

Ouma did cough, but it wasn’t in reaction to pain, just at sucking in air hastily. A hand wiped at the drool, and other fluids on his mouth, and he lifted his head, looking at Saihara between his thighs earnestly.

“N-No, I don’t think so… Like I said, I’ve never tried this, so I don’t really know…” Ouma swallowed loudly, a distressed expression taking over his face. “Is that bad…?”

Eyes going large, his pupils blown wide, Saihara lifted one of his feet and pressed it against Ouma’s forehead, harshly pushing it to the ground with a hollow smack. Seeing his opening, he returned to his position and forced himself inside of Ouma’s mouth, slipping easily down his throat as the other never refused him.

There was an exclamation that emerged from deep inside of Ouma, but it was unintelligible, barely human at this point. How could you even say he was human? When he had a mouth like that, a body like that, a place for Saihara to do whatever he pleased, more like a sex doll manufactured of the highest-quality silicone. He rutted into his mouth, and the other only let out a confused moan, unsure how he was supposed to feel, but never once fighting back.

Saihara’s eyes rolled back in his head as he found himself able to move however he wished, not even needing to utilize a punishing pace to reach the paramount of satisfaction. In fact, it was better if he went slow, able to fully experience the way Ouma’s ridges and curves slid around him without rejecting him. It was intoxicating, terrifyingly so, and he was genuinely afraid he would get addicted to it.

Who cared, anyway. He knew Ouma would let him do it whenever he wanted, whenever he pleased, maybe he’d just kidnap him for real after this to make sure he had access whenever he wanted. His tongue flickered out of his mouth and began licking Ouma’s oozing tip, feeling the other’s hips lift in response, and he did the best he could to reciprocate, but barely found himself able to function at the rate he was earlier.

“Ouma-kun, your mouth is so tight, ha-ah, I can go all the way inside…” Saihara felt his body jiggling as he fucked into his mouth, occasionally stopping to lick up the sides of Ouma’s erection and pumping it with his hand. The other trembled every time, desperately trying to speak, but unable to, and aware if he tried he might accidentally bring his teeth down, which he knew was the worst thing he could do in the entire world.

“You’re insane, every single one of your holes is, ah- Every single one is so slutty, you never know when to stop.” He was on his elbows now, using the extra movement in his forearms to flick his wrist quickly around Ouma’s erection, seeing how it throbbed desperately each time his tongue lapped over its tortured skin.

 _‘I didn’t know, I didn’t mean to, I only wanted to make you happy. Does it really feel that good, Saihara-kun?’_ Ouma wondered as he got lost in the other’s noises, frenzied and wild between the sloppy sounds sliding from between his lips. He sounded like he had the last time, but somehow worse, like Ouma had done something so prodigious, so shocking, it was wrecking him entirely. It was compounding the pleasure from the slick palm and flitting tongue over his already sensitive area, and he began to vocalize loudly in his throat as he felt something inevitable coming.

“You’re- ah- cumming, you’re cumming even though I’m using your throat like a toy?” Saihara laughed wildly and kept up his motions, despite Ouma furiously squirming and crying around his cock. “Go ahead and cum, and make sure you swallow all of mine!”

Ouma’s body lifted from the floor and he came relatively wordlessly, gagged as Saihara pressed himself completely inside his mouth to cum as well, the liquid squirting onto his face causing him to moan shrilly. The cum splattered into his long bangs and across his cheeks, his face directly over Ouma’s dick, and the heavy sensation squeezed the final drops of restraint from him as he emptied himself inside of the tightness surrounding his dick, Ouma’s muscles squeezing him sweetly.

The pair collapsed around each other panting, Saihara only managing to slide himself from Ouma’s twitching mouth when he composed his breathing, hearing the other suck in a pitiful gasp of air once his throat was freed. His jaw was lax and in pain, but that was surprisingly all, still basking his afterglow of his own orgasm, and Saihara’s apparent enjoyment, to even care about something as trivial as that.

That was, until he felt two hands wrap around his ankles completely and keep them wrenched apart against his will.

“E-Eh?” He strained to see, but with Saihara crushing his entire weight on top of him, all he could manage to see was a pair of knees covered in black pants, one of either side of his shoulders. “What’s…?”

Saihara’s body lifted, as if he was trying to understand too, and shifted to the side, a hand pressed up against his chest as it forced him out of the way. Momota towered over Ouma’s crumpled frame, and a sick feeling crawled its way up his chest, as if he was going to vomit back up all of Saihara he had promised to swallow.

“This is an interesting toy you got here,” the lack of a grin on Momota’s face was enough to run anyone cold, but when it appeared, that was what really terrified those that had any sense. And he was beaming now. “If I wasn’t tired of mouths already, I’d try out that hole.”

He began to undo his zipper, releasing Ouma only long enough for that, returning his hand to his calf now, easily swallowing it in his grip again. Ouma’s eyes were wide, and his abused throat felt too broken to fully speak, but he knew he needed to protest.

“I-“

“I wonder if this one is just as good, though.” Realizing with dread what part of himself was exposed now, Ouma lifted his head, his neck protesting at the awkward position along with his aching after a day of laying on the floor and hanging his head in shame. His swirling eyes, full of fear, did nothing to deter Momota, the glint in his teeth shining beneath the lights.

“N-No, you can’t-“ Ouma stuttered as he swung his head back and forth, frantically attempting to slide away as he was held in place. Placing his head back down, he dug his nails into the wood, hoping it would give him a new grip to push himself, but his wilted flower of a body was no match for the monster on top of him.

“Stop it, stop it, stop it,” Ouma cradled his hands to his face as he begged, his nails feeling sore as they dug into the soft skin beneath his eyes. If that _thing_ went inside of him, he was just going to dig his eyes out with his bare hands, right here. He didn’t want to see a world where anyone other than Saihara had been inside of him, he didn’t want to look him in the eye if any other person had ever marked him there. The tears were welling up as his fingers crept closer, but the sound of Saihara’s voice brought it to a halt, on both ends.

“Stop it,” his iteration of the words seemed to be enough to actually pause the situation, and Momota looked over at him, a quizzical expression clouding his face.

“Why?”

Saihara sat silently for a minute, trying to categorize his own thoughts before he spoke anymore, aware he had blurted it out without thinking through his full reasoning. His thoughts were still a mess of firing connections at the wrong time, and he tried to push past them to understand it all deeper. Why?

“Because Ouma is… because he’s…”

Ouma was what? Too small, too fragile, too frail? That was a lie, he knew personally just how much the boy could take, Momota certainly wouldn’t be the one to break him. It was something else entirely, and it was something Saihara had never legitimately figured out from the start.

Why did he genuinely care about what happened to Ouma? More than he had ever for anyone else, for any idea or concept of emotional connection he had ever considered? He was certainly possible of having sexual attraction without romantic emotion, this entire night had been a testament to that, but when it came to Ouma, he found himself reacting differently.

If he was following the path of all of his previous human interactions, it hypothetically should have never bothered him that Ouma turned down his invitation. Just another shitty normie day. Just another kid that never wanted to come over to his house, something he had given up on doing well into elementary school. But instead, he almost fucked around and got himself murdered over it.

Why did he care so much?

“Because he doesn’t want you to… and I don’t want you to either.” That was his final answer, and while it lacked the conviction it should have, as it was the basics of consent, it was a big step for him to iterate the closing portion.

He cared because Ouma was his, and like it or not, Saihara was becoming his in return, more and more every day.

Momota watched Saihara closely the entire time he came to his simple conclusion, but it was the part tacked on the end that really interested him. So, it was like that, huh? He assumed his confession earlier wasn’t going to be reciprocated, then. But, it wouldn’t stop him from trying.

“Well how the hell are you supposed to know when he doesn’t want to if he’s always sayin’ ‘No’ this and ‘Stop’ that?” The larger boy released his grip on Ouma and he went scuttling away instantly, pulling his jacket around him and sliding until his back slammed up against the wooden bed. If he could keep going he would have put kilometers of space between them, but he was stranded there, shaking beneath his uniform as he attempted to keep his guard up as much as possible.

“Because he would only say yes to me,” Saihara said more confidently, and that caused Momota’s eyebrow to quirk up, as well as Ouma to snap his head over to the boy kneeling on the ground.

_‘Saihara-kun… You understand, then. You really understand?!’_

Ouma could have cried, but he kept it inside, his lips instead quivering upward into a wavering smile, yet it was one of true happiness. His hands curled into his own jacket, and he pulled in on himself, wishing to keep the delight inside, so it would never escape from his body.

Unfortunately, it dissipated in the absent wind, as it always did.

“Tch-“ Momota tossed his half-assed intentions to the side and moved to Saihara, placing a hand on his arm and harshly tugging him toward him. “Whatever, it wasn’t like he was the one I wanted in the first place.”

“Huh?” Saihara crashed into his chest, and felt his heavy arms encompass his frame, cementing him against his body. His heart was viciously loud in the trapped boy’s ear, pressed directly against his face, where it sounded almost uneven or upset.

Leaning back into a sitting position, he placed Saihara on his lap, always shocking him with just how easily he could toss him around without breaking a sweat. Pushing himself back with his hands anchored against his chest, he looked down, seeing the bump between Momota’s underwear just underneath the curve of his own stomach. He was hard again? How many times was that now?

“…And you want me?” Saihara kept his eyes trained on the hardness, losing the vision in the sides of his sight, unsure why he was feeling so dizzy.

“I don’t get you Shuichi,” Momota reached around his body and spread him as he spoke, causing the other to spasm unexpectedly. “You say you want to die, then you don’t. Then you say you wanna fuck, and ask me to remember you, and get all confused when I say I want you. Then you throat-fuck some guy on my floor and get mad when I try to do something that ain’t even as bad.”

It was a hefty list of contradictions, and Saihara could only bite his lip in response, without any sort of well-thought out, strong answer this time. He didn’t have one, he was just a piece of shit, that was the only explanation.

“But I don’t care.”

Saihara lifted his head to look at Momota’s face, and saw he was ripping the lid off of a portable bottle of lube with his sharp teeth. It made him go rigid, his other hand still spreading him, and it felt searing now, like it was burning a mark into his skin that would never fade or disappear.

Saihara felt his pupils trembling as he watched the red liquid dribble from the tip and coat Momota’s upper lip, his tongue swiping out to clear it away. There was a sheen of sweat across his face, and as he had looked down before, he had seen an actual spot of wetness leaking through his boxers, most likely from watching what just happened between the two.

That was right, Ouma was still here, and Saihara was aware of his presence in the swirling sides of his twisting vision. Ouma was going to see him get fucked, probably in a way he had never seen before, and with a hideous realization he knew he didn’t mind. After this entire day, his mind was too far gone to make rational decisions, only carnal ones that relied on his most basic inclinations. And his inclinations were always messed up.

Momota coated his fingers thoroughly in the globular liquid, dripping indifferently to his pants as he moved quickly, with a clear purpose in mind. He firmly tugged the boy straddling him closer, as if he could get anywhere that was more convenient than where he was, and felt his chest press up against his as his head slotted under his chin.

“Kaito-“ Saihara felt the air leave his body in one fell swoop as a finger began rimming his hole, spreading the slick liquid around generously, but not enough to disguise the sheer size of it. His delirious eyes glanced down between them, as if he could see anything other than their melded bodies, and he let out a gasp as that finger began to enter him.

His entire body clenched down, and Momota froze his motions, waiting for him to relent his dangerous squeezing so he could continue preparing his smaller body for something that was going to be much bulkier.

“Just relax,” his voice was never encouraging, and Saihara hissed in response, curling his nails sharply into his built chest. “I thought you said you’d done this before?”

“I-I have!” He asserted, easing up and pushing back on the finger, feeling it stretch him wider as he protested the idea he was inexperienced, especially in something like this. His sex toy collection was too extensive to be overlooked so flippantly. “Just not… with someone else before.”

It was a good thing his face was trapped underneath his neck, or he would have seen the animalistic burn that began in Momota’s eyes at that admission, undoubtedly frightening. Settling the full length of his finger inside, he kept Saihara secure against him with his unrelenting grip on his ass, the strength behind it enough in itself to prove he could never escape now, even if he wanted to.

“Ah, hnn, K-Kaito-kun…” Saihara clamped his eyes shut as the rough digit began moving inside of him, first twirling, then pushing in and out, each subtle movement enough to begin loosening him, his skin giving way as it became increasingly wet. When the area deepest inside of him was scraped, his mouth fell open, the lingering soreness in his jaw from having it forced open and sealed shut in countless unusual ways making him shudder.

The way he reciprocated being touched there, simultaneously trying to compress himself closer and slither away, didn’t go unnoticed by the other. Curving his finger to sit there continually, Momota felt a deep laugh rumble in his chest when Saihara squealed as if he was in pain.

“I guess you weren’t lying.” No virgin reacted this way, at least someone that had previously never inserted something inside themselves. Good, that meant he could be a little rougher with him.

As he mercilessly pressed a second finger inside, Saihara shook his head quickly, still captured underneath his chin and unable to do anything other than rub his smooth hair over the areas that weren’t covered from his beard. The strands tickled against Momota’s neck, but he barely noticed, his exhaustive attention focused solely on the way the slick tightness convulsed around his hand.

He wasn’t able to produce any sounds, just shake, a ripping pain and doubling of pleasure causing his legs to squeeze against the thighs he was straddling tightly. Momota’s legs kept him spread, and as his knuckles pressed flush against his ass, the entirety of his two fingers buried inside, he curled his nails into his chest until the crescent indents turned spotted bloody.

 _‘It feels so different from when I do it, I don’t know why something like this is making me already blank…’_ Saihara lamented his unremitting bad luck, and his incessant tremors, his arms clutching harder as if it would help him latch onto his sanity. He had already lost his mind multiple times today, and his once again growing erection was more of a warning sign than anything else that he was truly going to snap when this went any further.

But that was what he loved, wasn’t it? Leaving his body, flipping a switch, escaping the putrid thoughts that clouded his mind and made him unable to live normally. Whether it was through coming home and obsessing over games based in death and murder. Or pressing a knife to Ouma’s skin until he lost sight of his human qualities. Or submitting to the fact that Momota was going to kill him, erase him from existence.

He had already relinquished to the thought his body was going to be destroyed once today, and if it wasn’t going to end up that way, he might as well abide to another method.

“H-Hah, good, that’s where it feels good,” as if he needed to honestly tell him, his breathy pants and squeaking vocalizations enough of a sign that scissoring him roughly was giving Saihara pleasure plenty to make his dick throb. The way he was squeezing, Momota would have assumed it didn’t, but it appeared he wasn’t lying, and was instead becoming more excited as he squished loudly around him.

“Are you sure?” Momota asked, though not out of concern, but to taunt him, the way his breath fluttered his hair over his ears making the other shiver. “It might break you.”

“Break me,” Saihara begged, no hint of shame in his voice. “You can do it, you can break me, so hurry up and put it in already-“

Needy, he lifted his head and looked up at Momota, his cheeks sticky with leftover cum glinting a rosy pink, “Please?”

Leaning forward, he ran his tongue up Momota’s neck, over his vividly fluttering pulse, the skin sensitive and jumping in response. Continuing upward, he licked the small bit of cum that had rubbed off onto his chin, curling his tongue around the pronounced bone and reaching as far as he could on his unsteady legs to bite onto his earlobe. It wasn’t a playful nibble, it was with as much muster as his tender jaw could force itself to do, and there was a sharp inhale in response to the puncturing of his skin.

If there was any blood, Saihara never got to taste it, brutally shoved backward and slamming to the ground with a cacophonous bang. It shook the bed next to them, and Ouma jumped as well, the entire world seeming to recoil as Momota hovered over him menacingly.

“You have no idea what you’re asking for,” he began fingering Saihara furiously as he spoke, making the other lift his back off the ground as his chest spasmed in the air. His already fuzzy head was boiling, feeling his walls clench down each time Momota’s movements caused him to pull out, making him wrack with an unrestrained cry.

Lifting one of his thighs in the air, the smoldering boy ground his other wrist into Saihara until it was even tiring him, the taut muscles beneath the skin poking out in their strain. Watching intently as the hole seemed to eat up anything that was pushed into it, he felt a gust of air pass over his erection, the trapped liquid beneath cold as it stained his underwear in his arousal.

Unable to bear it any longer, he removed his hand, the disgustingly wet noise, and broken moan, Saihara’s body made in response a clear sign of his distress. But he was not left waiting long, Momota’s pants and boxers pushed down his thighs hurriedly, but too bothersome to fully remove, as he lined himself up with the twitching hole, the sheer size difference already present, and frightening.

“Kaito-kun, you-“ Saihara looked over his body at the muscular frame towering over him, the bare chest rising and falling heavily as he heaved with his own urgent need. Unable to get another word in, he felt the tip stretching him, knocking the ability to speak coherently from his list of hastily lessening abilities.

 _‘He wants to be broken? Fine, he asked for it,’_ Momota decided remorselessly, and never entered at a slow pace, shoving himself in as forcefully as he could.

“Hii- N-No, ah!” Saihara squealed as he felt his lower body rip in half, lighting on fire as if he was being lowered onto a painful, yet erotic, burning stake. But it wasn’t pain, that word didn’t fully define it, it was exhilaration.

When Momota’s hips rested fully against his ass, Saihara was already a seizing mess, his nails first clawing at the dirty wood, before they reached up and buried themselves absentmindedly in the tree-trunk like arms pinning him to the ground. His mouth was hanging open in a desperate bid for air, but it seemed to flow into his body and leave at the same time, never transferring him oxygen correctly until he felt he might faint.

“I-It’s inside, it really fit a-all inside? Is it really all the way inside?” Saihara tried to get a good look, but all he could see was his own naked body, before it was cut off by his leaking erection and disappeared into Momota’s wide thighs. His question was answered when the fullness began to remove itself, and he gouged his nails deeper, his eyes going wide. “No, keep it inside! Don’t take it out!”

Ignoring his desperate pleas, Momota removed himself almost fully, before slamming back inside, a small bump forming in Saihara’s gut at the jarring motion. His total frame convulsed, including his dick, singing out in thrill as he was once again filled to completeness.

“Nicely done, Shuichi, it ate me all the way up.” Momota’s shoulders lifted with a sadistic laugh as he looked down at the already-crying boy beneath him, looking broken, but not quite enough.

Not preferring the missionary position, he moved onto his side, lifting one of Saihara’s legs as he settled behind him, effectively spooning him and somehow managing to dig into him deeper. Aside from that, in this position, he was able to look over his shoulder at the other person in the room, eager to see his reaction as Saihara melted into an inhuman form.

Ouma was entranced, his balled fist still chastely covering his lower half with the sleeve of his jacket, while the other was lifted to his mouth, pushing his lip between his teeth as he bit it brutally. The skin kept peeling off and building up in his mouth with a gross feeling, but he was unable to stop, already beginning to taste blood as the skin broke from his grinding canines.

When he saw Saihara’s face turned toward him, he bit excessively hard, causing a burn to begin behind his eyeballs from the pang, and something else. Saihara looked like his face had lost its original shape, now a gelatinous blob that shook and cried each time Momota began to thrust into him, drowning the room with his jarring moans, one after the other.

“Wait, wait, Kaito-kun, you-you’re being too rough. It’s gonna break, I’m gonna-“ Saihara’s eyes rolled back in his head as the other pounded him relentlessly, enjoying himself as well as he grunted loudly each time he disappeared inside of him.

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” His sentence severed in half against his devices when Saihara clamped down on him as he heard his voice, directly in his ear and flowing with satisfaction.

“I’ll really die, hah, aha. If you break me I’ll really die…” Saihara managed to force his eyes down and saw his body bobbing, with his leg lifted in the air high enough he could see his Momota’s cock somehow fitting inside of him and fucking him quickly. The sight made him pant loudly, his tongue slipping out of his mouth and hanging pathetically as he gasped for air.

Switching his head around when he heard Momota let out a low ‘Fuck’ under his breath behind him, he hopelessly reached for his face, digging his fingers into his scalp and forcing their lips together. As they smashed together, he crawled his tongue over his lips, breathing heavily in his face as he futilely attempted to kiss him while he bounced and cried.

Momota managed to capture his mouth and secure a stable kiss, their tongues mixing together in a mess that could be barely labeled what it was. The flavor of cigarette smoke wasn’t detestable now, but instead like honey, spreading down Saihara’s body as the spit rolled from his mouth and dribbled over his chin and neck. It felt like his being was being infected and irreparably stained, Momota’s saliva coating his throat in the same way his cum had, his consciousness feeling like it would slip at the sensation any time.

“Kyaito-kun, so good, it feelsh so good,” Saihara rambled despite being barely able to speak, but both of his arms reaching behind him and gripping onto the back of Momota’s head to force him to stay anyway. “B-Break, I’m gonna shatter and die f’real, even though you said you wouldn’t kill me.”

His hazy mind recalling the promise, his eyes drifted over to where he remembered Ouma being, while his mouth kept mingling with Momota’s. Catching sight of the tiny boy quivering only a few feet away, his whole body seeming to shake tenfold when the gold irises met his, he let go of Momota, reaching a weak arm outward him.

“Ouma-kun, Ouma-kun,” he craved his clean skin and pure hands, wanting to feel the way his lips spread and accepted him fully. It was the memory of Ouma’s mouth consuming him whole that made him cry out and almost fall, the other scrambling forward and rushing up to save him if he needed.

“Saihara-kun!” Ouma’s hands flittered about, unsure where to go, as the boy crumbled facedown to the floor, his shoulders shaking in laughter. Behind him, Momota never ceased, instead mounting him from the back and putting his crushing grip on his hips, fucking him without reprieve into the ground.

“Haah, hah, big! It’s hitting-“ Saihara lifted his head when Ouma’s hand pressed against his cheek, looking up blearily at the blurry face wavering over him. Wobbling, he pushed upward to his arms, so his face was even with Ouma, his knees beginning to burn as they rubbed raw against the unprotected floor.

There were tears in Ouma’s eyes, and the blissed-out boy couldn’t comprehend why, his mind only swimming with ecstasy. He wanted to reach out, but knew if he did he would fall to the ground again, so he instead brought his head forward and urged him into a kiss, his lips already covered in drool.

Ouma flinched as Saihara’s lips touched his exposed and fleshy ones, the stinging of his kiss not worth pulling away, not in the slightest. As soon as they made contact, Saihara moaned highly, blowing balmy air full of the smell of tobacco over Ouma’s pale face and making his nose crinkle.

_‘Saihara-kun… Does it really feel that good?’_

Just as their tongues began to mingle, something in Saihara started to crack, something he hadn’t even known was left. His thighs were trembling as Momota smacked against him from behind mercilessly, his hand even reaching around to tentatively wrap his dick in a strong hold.

He was trapped, he was sandwiched between Ouma and Momota as he began to truly lose his sanity. He wasn’t in control of his words, or what noises his body produced, in full now, the last of his lucidity dulled and frazzled from the extreme pleasure. He no longer felt like a human, a mammal thousands of years in the making, that occupied the height of intelligence and the food chain. He felt like a writhing ball of sexual pleasure, slave to his instincts, slave to the two-people keeping him afloat.

Of course, that wasn’t the truth. Ouma still felt as if Saihara had control over him, hiding his embarrassingly aroused body with his arm as Saihara’s deep kiss sent his heart pattering. He took a risk and brushed his fingers past his cheek and behind his neck, wrenching him in place so he couldn’t pull away, the other wailing enthusiastically in response and biting onto his lip with unmatchable ardor.

Ouma spasmed at the pain, but let Saihara continue to sloppily explore his defiled mouth, his heart conflicted as he heard his name being repeated over and over between the kisses. Saihara was thinking about him, like he had said he always was.

“Th-This is bad, I’m gonna cum, I’m going to- I can’t breathe, I’m going to die, I’ll die-“ Saihara arched his back as Momota rammed him deeply after his words, his dick being stroked enough to make his mind turn to white hotness. “Wreck me, cum inside of me, Kaito-kun, please!”

Feeling the tightness around him go impossibly rigid, pulsing nonstop, Momota groaned lowly, Saihara’s words ringing in his ears. Seeing the bones of his spine curve under his skin, his pace turned from the even, though quick, rhythm it had carried before, to a feverish and irregular one.

“I’ll give you what you want, Shuichi.” Ouma’s eyes flashed open at those words, and he looked over the body of his lover still kissing him to see Momota flicker his gaze up at him, a challenging glint surfacing behind it.

Not continuing the eye contact for long, already feeling the signals of his own orgasm he had tried to stave off for as long as he could, Momota bent down and latched his sharp teeth onto Saihara’s angular shoulder blade. He pierced the skin in one, thorough bite, and the blood flooded his mouth as Saihara squealed, the supple muscles beneath it wriggling in gratification.

It was the bite that flung Saihara over the edge, off the cliff, to his inevitable death. He thought it was genuinely going to kill him, his body losing all of his air as he screamed against Ouma’s lips, their familiar softness doing nothing to ease his shuddering loss of consciousness.

Momota buried himself as deep within as he physically could, almost as if he was going to sever Saihara’s entire shorter body in half as his cum filled him. Saihara’s splattered across the floor, and he felt the groan against his shredded skin as his vision crept away and he called wordlessly into Ouma’s mouth.

The orgasm continued until his body finally faltered, his arms collapsing and his head falling into the naked lap of the boy in front of him. He was giggling wildly when he could manage to breathe again, and as Momota made gruff, strained noises against his back, he couldn’t help but arch it. It seemed everyone had thoroughly enjoyed themselves.

But Ouma wasn’t laughing.

He observed the way the sweat dripped from Momota’s bare skin and onto Saihara’s pale body, his face pressed up against his back as he panted like an animal to get air. The entire outline of his frame, the shape of his existence, the mere _concept_ of him… Ouma wanted to… He was going to…

Ouma had never hated anyone, or more accurately, another person other than himself. Not his father, not his bullies, not even the occasional person he supposed Saihara would glance at out of habit; they were all the way they were because of his own faults. But this person, he was challenging his love with Saihara simply because he thought he could, not because it was weak. It wasn’t because Ouma was weak. It was because he was a filthy person that didn’t deserve to be alive.

The somber boy, so cold and absolute compared to the wheezing messes before him, narrowed his eyes, the bloodlust emanating from his glare enough to unsettle a room of experienced assassins. It was a face he had never made before, not in his entire life, and it only twisted as he pulled his lip upward to grimace sickly. A pitch-black cloud had encircled him, impenetrable and ruinous, until it swallowed the entire room into a complete darkness, all pointing directly at Momota’s vulnerable carcass, as good as dead.

_‘I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you myself.  I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you for trying to hurt Saihara-kun. I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you for trying to keep us apart. I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you!’_

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Sunday! I hope you're all living lives free of gratuitous sin and making good choices for your mental health, which I know can't be true if you made it to the end of this fic ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Ugh, I mean, where do I even begin lol. Back at it again with the 50+ page updates. Really though I've been moving and in school so I'm shocked too, trust me. Also, time for my timely apology...
> 
> I'M SORRY.
> 
> I'm sorry for writing this and taking it this far, if there was even a line to be crossed. Sexually, I don't think this addition was so bad, but psychologically it was extremely draining to write. I've never been interested in writing characters with clear morality, but Momota really /really/ pushed my buttons to write, it was a bit scary reading through what my mind managed to create in this interpretation of him.
> 
> He just always intrigued me, in the background, with his comments of "Once I have fame and money, I don't need to worry about what's possible!" What was he trying so hard to reach, but never could? Why was he so confident he could kill everyone and win, when it's a rule that a single person can't kill more than two victims a trial? There's something going on there, that was easily overlooked by Saihara's apparent thirst in the pregame tapes, that I had to pay attention to.
> 
> Likewise, the implication of all of this on Ouma was also exhausting my mind. I purposefully tried to avoid focusing on him in the final sex scene because I knew his thoughts would detract from it, and I didn't want to make this chapter all angst. But no worries! Next chapter we will be back to our SaiOuma roots, and Ouma will definitely make it known he doesn't intend on sharing. I very much wanted to set up the scenario for Ouma to snap, because I don't want him to be a wooby sad baby that has no faults. He's really, really scary too, and when he cracks in half, it's going to be... interesting.
> 
> Momota won't become a romantic fixture in this relationship at all, and he'll probably only show up in the background for future chapters (unless I get some idea or someone wants to see more of him lol). Like I said, Ouma doesn't share in the same way Saihara doesn't.
> 
> Hmm what else... Ah, yeah. Next chapter is straight (ahem) SaiOuma, but after, I have... plans.... for Rantaro Amami........
> 
> Also, the title of this chapter is song based, shoutout to my vocaloid fans. As was the last chapter, though it was probably easily overlooked... The next chapter will be too... I have a pretty extensive pregame playlist, and since the trend seems to be continuing, I might just share it if anyone is interested. If I do, feel free to send me some of your pregame-ish songs!
> 
> That being said, I hope you enjoyed this chapter and managed to make it to the end without losing your lunch. If you enjoyed, please leave some kudos and a comment, as they fuel me and keep me from believing I'm alone in my corner of this fandom with my degeneracy... Also, I reply to all of them, and I really love the conversations/discussions we get into together! Like having your own little fucked up family.
> 
> Thank you so, so much for reading, and have a great day!


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